Trauma
by 8BonnieBlue8
Summary: 'She cannot for the life of her understand what Shay is doing in the parking lot of DYAD. If she had her faculties about her, she would find this troubling and cause for investigation. As it is, she finds herself only exhausted and morbidly amused by the fact.' Shay finds Delphine alone and bleeding in the DYAD parking lot. Cophine/Shaysima/Delphay/Delaysima
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So I love cophine and shaysima (I've also fallen into shipping Delphine/Shay because i'm crazy) and it's my hopeless dream that we will one day get Delaysima. Since that's not likely to happen, I've started writing this fic. It's largely Delphine and Shay centric since I love those two and really want to explore their characters and delve into their back story a bit. Anyway, I hope you like it. I know that Shay's not very popular right now so I'm not expecting many people to read this but what the hell**

 **Warning: There will be references to attempted suicide throughout the story**

 **...**

 ** _Trauma (noun)_**

 _ **1.** A serious bodily injury or shock, as from violence or an accident._

 _ **2.** A severely disturbing experience that leads to lasting psychological or emotional impairment._

Delphine closes her eyes as the sound of footsteps, even and sure, dissipates into the distance. She's thankful that her final moments won't be tainted by the presence of her killer, looming over and waiting for that bitter end. At the same time, her heart flutters with anxiousness at the prospect of being left alone, _dying alone_. All her instincts cry for help, for comfort, and yet her mind knows that none can be given;listens to them with pity. How odd that, even with every logical fiber within her pointing toward one inevitable conclusion, there is a part of her that still hopes for a saving grace.

Perhaps this is not unusual, though. Perhaps every person when confronted with death, even when they find themselves breaths apart, cannot fully believe that it has come.

Survival instinct, maybe. Fight even when the fight is lost, on the chance that the tides may turn.

That won't be happening this time though.

In agreement, pain surges within her and Delphine shudders, moaning when this movement only adds to her misery.

Perhaps her killer would have been kinder to give her a shot to the head, a quick death, end the misery of waiting for what cannot be escaped.

She can find no rational in drawing this out.

When Delphine was 17, her parents made her see a psychiatrist. She can remember long sessions, sitting stalwart straight on a seat designed for comfort, legs crossed and arms folded, _trying to speak_. Trying and failing. Oh, she spoke, but never the words that he wanted to hear, never those that she needed to say. But she can't be entirely blamed for that. Quiet is safe, she learnt that early on. There is a danger in being loud, of daring to be heard, to be _noticed_.

How could she speak then, when she had trained herself not to?

 _Do you think about death, Delphine?_

 _Oui, Monsiour._

She tries, at the very least, to be honest.

 _Do you think think about killing yourself?_

 _Non, Monsiour._

But she has fashioned her world in grays and half truths.

 _What do you think about?_

 _Silence_

The truth is, she used to think about death a lot back then. It started when she paused in the middle of reading to her bedridden grandmother - final stages of cancer, riddled with pain and hopelessness - and looked up to find her still. No rattling breaths, no agonized coughs, no flickering but falling eyelids . . . So still, so quiet.

She was frightened, of course. But also . . .relieved.

Even then she knew, for some sufferings, death is the only peace.

She cradled that knowledge to her chest for many years after that; a fascination, a failsafe. It gave her comfort in the long hours of the day, and kept her up at night, mind racing.

But death is not always peaceful, not always yearned for.

She understands that now more than ever, palming the gaping hole in her stomach and feeling the flood of blood pour out over her hand. She prays for a miracle, even as she accepts her fate. She feels the treasured plans of her future falling away with each faltering breath. She hears the teasing murmurs of her lover as she wraps around her in bed, lost to her forever.

 _Loss_. She feels it greatly.

But there is also relief. That traitorous, unimaginable feeling that, even now, she tries to deny the presence of. Because there is so much she has yet to do, so much that needs doing, and so much she wants. And it will never be a relief to leave Cosima.

But she is tired, and battle weary. She has walked on glass for too long, and now nothing but blood and scar tissue remain of the feet she once stood _en pointe_ with. She has lied and killed and ruined herself in sacrifice and although her heart screams its demand for more, she cannot.

She has no more to give.

So relief, maybe.

Warring with regret.

With grief.

She closes her eyes and tries not feel any of it, tries for silence.

...

" _What do you think happens to us after we die?"_

 _Delphine looks down, twirling their combined hands. Over and over, over and over. "Well, without oxygen our cells begin to die and decomposition begins. First, rigor mortis-_

" _No, I mean in an afterlife sort of way." Another turn of their hands. "Do you think there could be one or it's all just bunch of comforting human bullshit?"_

 _There is no use in wondering the cause of conversation. The cold, abandoned corpse of Jennifer Fitzsimmons weighs heavily on her mind after today's autopsy. She has no doubt that Cosima's is similarly burdened by it. Not for the first time, she wonders if it was wise to reveal Jennifer to Cosima, not only that but have her assist in an examination of the body. The process had been a horrifying slap in the face for Delphine, so she can only imagine what it was like for her._ _ **Has**_ _imagined it, long before and long after, as she weighed the pros and cons of enlisting the clone's expertise._

 _But she promised honesty. And full disclosure._

 _And Cosima insisted on joining the autopsy._

 _And yet . . ._

 _She does not think she will ever escape the nightmare of cutting into the replica of a body she loves and knows so intimately. Even the memory of it fills her with an ebbing panic that she must always push down, away, for Cosima's sake._

 _She should not have let her do it._

 _No, that's not her choice._

 _ **You knew she could not handle it.**_ **You** _ **cannot handle it.**_

 _It was Cosima's decision to make._

 _Delphine can't meet her gaze. "I don't know. I've thought about it, of course. I'd say everyone does. But never in depth. I'm not religious, nor was my family - my father liked to say that religion was the root of all evil. He felt very strongly about the fact. We never even celebrated Christmas." She frowns, thinking._

" _Yeah, but, I mean, outside religion."_

 _She takes a breath, looks at her and smiles. It is a weak smile. But it is half honest at least. "Oui. I believe it's possible." She settles their clasped hands in her lap, holds tight. "After all, there is so much science can't explain." Yes, she believes it's possible. Or, more accurately, she wants it to be. "Why not?"_

" _What do you think it'd be like?"_

 _She ponders the question, rubbing a thumb over the soft, soft skin of Cosima's hand. "Peaceful. Quiet. Like when you're lying in the bath and, for a little while, you go under. And all the sounds become a hum and you can see but the shapes are blurred, the sharpness is gone . . ." She tries to explain it, that feeling of being completely submerged in liquid warmth, the rest of the world cut off . . . "And for those brief moments, nothing matters."_

 _Cosima turns to her, eyes soft as her mouth eases into a smile. She rubs a thumb across Delphine's cheek, caressing, memorizing. "Sounds nice."_

" _Mm." The blonde's head falls forward, touching their noses together._

 _For a time they stay like that, peaceful, quiet, together._

 _Then Cosima grins, a light dancing in her eyes. "You think they have sex in the great beyond? 'Cause if not, I'm totally gonna be filing a complaint."_

 _Her eyes crease in amusement. "Cheeky."_

" _Gotta say though," Cosima continues, threading a curl behind Delphine's ear. "I think any world without you would kinda be an epic fail for the most part. Just my humble scientific opinion."_

 _The blonde bites her lip._

 _She has so much to say to that, so many words that nestle in her heart and try to make their way up but not a single one would be enough. She does not know how to describe this feeling, this immense love. It is impossible. A world without her may be a failure to the clone, but she cannot even_ _ **imagine**_ _a world without Cosima. And it terrifies her that she may one day not have to, that it will transcend the imaginary and become her only reality._

 _What will she do then?_

 _She surges forward at the same time as Cosima, breath expelling into her mouth as they meet. She pulls her close, lips fusing in a desperate hope never to part and, as they kiss, the brunette holds her just as close. She savors the contact, the warmth of her mouth and thud of her pulse beneath her hand. She cherishes the moment, a distant part of her knowing there may be few like it to come._

 _Eventually, they have to part, gasping for air and clutching at each other still. Delphine exhales and rubs her nose along her cheek, ghosts butterfly kisses across the skin._

" _ **Mon souffle**_ _."_

 _Cosima settles into her, head nestled in the crook of her neck and Delphine sighs, closing her eyes against the steady puff of breath against her collar. It is a reassurance she hopes never to lose, and vows to do everything in her power to keep._

" _Dude, I can't believe you never celebrated Christmas. That's like seriously messed up."_

 _..._

All of a sudden, the quiet is broken. A car hums into being, coming to stop nearby. She flinches, cringing at the inevitable pain this again causes. A car door opening and closing, then the distant click of heels, hesitant at first. As they come closer, though, they grow faster, heavier and she realizes that it is her they are coming for.

Is it Cosima, come to continue their conversation maybe? Her chest fills with relief even as her thoughts fall into a panic.

She does not want Cosima to see this. To see _her_.

She cannot be saved. Even if, by some miracle, this bullet doesn't kill her, another assassin soon will. Neolution is resolved: they will not let her live.

And the idea of Cosima caught in the middle of that fills her with dread.

But at the same time, it is _Cosima_. The woman she wasn't supposed to love but did, and did so with a recklessness and absolution that both terrified and thrilled her. Cosima who has the power to ease her constant anxiety just with the touch of a hand, the turn of a smile. Cosima who has loved and known her in ways that no-one else has, or ever will it seems.

And she wants her. She wants her here. She wants to see her again, just one last time. To be held by her, touched by her. She wants-

But she cannot.

For the same reason that she wants her, she cannot have her. She loves her far too much.

The footsteps draw closer, halt and there's an exclamation of surprise. "Shit."

Delphine sags. It is not Cosima.

And if she is both disappointed and relieved then it matters little. She will not be alive to judge herself for it later.

 _Tap-tap-tap_

The person is running now, growing ever louder and Delphine bites down on her lip. She tries to draw strength, something, anything more than mere desire, to open her eyes. She needs to see, needs to know who has found her, who has intruded upon this scene. Who will bear witness to these most private moments that should belong only to Cosima?

She hopes with everything that it is not Neolution.

Eyes fluttering, she fights for them to remain open for more than a millisecond, to make something of her blurred surroundings. When they do and she sees, a laugh bubbles up in her throat and she chokes. The universe it seems is full of delicious irony.

She cannot for the life of her understand what Shay is doing in the parking lot of DYAD. If she had her faculties about her, she would find this troubling and cause for investigation. As it is, she finds herself only exhausted and morbidly amused by the fact.

When Shay reaches her, she crouches on the ground without preamble, hands diving into into her handbag and pulling out a phone - to call an ambulance no doubt. Delphine makes a noise of protest that sounds more pained than anything, failing to get the point across.

"What the fuck happened?"

She blinks, trying to process.

Formulating a response, however, is somewhat beyond her at this point.

Shay is reaching for the hem of her bloodied top nonetheless, and pulling it up to inspect what lurks beneath before Delphine can even think to stop her. Not that she could. She's not sure she has the strength to offer much more than a dazed glare.

"I knew you guys were into some crazy shit but seriously?" The smaller blonde bites her lip at the sight that greets her, paling a little. "Jesus, I'm going to call an ambulance."

Delphine tries to shake her head. "No, no ambulance."

Neolution is everywhere, not just in Topside and Castor. She has no doubts that if she survives the trip to the hospital, she will not survive her stay there.

Shay knows none of this, though. "You've got a bullet wound to the abdomen. I don't care if hospitals give you the heebie jeebies, you're going."

"Th-They'll find me there," she gasps.

The other woman bites her lip, considering. She eyes Delphine for a moment, the bleeding hole in her stomach, the distress in her eyes and hesitates. Something changes in her then, as though a switch has been flicked, and gone is the panicked woman scrambling for a solution. In her place is a stranger, urgent but calm. "Right. OK. First things first."

She strips off her pale sweater and, after a moment's thought, the purple singlet underneath. Reaching for Delphine again, she carefully but firmly presses the singlet into the wound. Agony courses through her and she cries out in a mixture of pain and alarm. Shay doesn't pause, applying further pressure before grabbing her sweater with the other hand. She threads it through the gap between the doctor's back and the car she's leaning against, bringing it to tie off at the front of her midsection. "Completely unhygienic but." She shook her head at herself, or perhaps just the insanity situation before looking back up at Delphine. "Can you keep the pressure up?" she asks, grabbing Delphine's trembling hands and placing them over the bandage. She obeys, clenching her muscles and straining to apply the appropriate amount of force, weak as she is. Shay nods and works an arm around Delphine's shoulders. "OK, good. I'm gonna need you to stand."

By this point, Delphine's eyes have fallen shut again and she's of half a mind to bat Shay away and tell her to _casse-toi_. She can feel what little strength remains to her bleeding out and a dizzy exhaustion setting in. The pain, also, is starting to leave her, fading into the background. Not a good sign, she knows, but she welcomes the change.

It will make it so much easier to sleep.

"Delphine!"

Yes, she might smack her.

Forcing her eyes open, she finds the smaller woman glaring at her with no small level of impatience.

She wonders what Shay will say to Cosima after? _I tried to save her but she refused to move. Sorry._

She wonders what Cosima will think of her then, if she will hate her for not trying, for not fighting.

She's had enough of fighting, though.

It was never something she was fond of. As a little girl she preferred silence to protests, enduring the onslaught of her parents' nitpicking, disappointment and dreams without a sound; listening to their fights, so often as they grew to make a sport out of it; abiding dinners and bedtime stories that were always broken by shouts and yells. She learnt to be quiet then, to blend into the furniture where none would notice her. By the time she was sent away to boarding school, it was a relief.

Until it wasn't.

Teenage girls love to fight too she soon found. And Delphine was smart and pretty and rich, and for all these things a threat. It was more difficult to hide there, surrounded by mass produced uniforms ever searching for the slightest error, but she tried.

That was her fight. Fighting to remain unheard, unseen.

It was only later, in university, that she began to fight for something else: the science, her career, knowledge. She fought for her position at DYAD, winning out over hundreds of other promising candidates. She fought for her role as Cosima's monitor, for her trust and her life.

 _Cosima . . ._

She has faught so much for Cosima.

"Hey!" A hand pats her cheek, nonviolent but insistent. She blinks at the wide-eyed woman. "I'd love to be able to carry you but I'm tiny and you're . . . not. Seriously, help me out here."

She will always fight for Cosima.

Weakly, she nods and Shay sags slightly in what might be relief. She wonders why she cares, what investment the woman has in Delphine surviving this. Is this not the perfect punishment for the woman who threatened her with a razor?

 _For Cosima._

"OK, on three. 1. 2. 3."

Delphine grits her teeth and grips onto Shay as she heaves her up. Her legs strain beneath her, pain returning anew with a cry, but forces to rise, to hold. There is a flood of warmth around her middle and her gaze flicks down to see the sweater flushing with blood. She staggers a little but Shay holds her.

"Good, good," she breathes. "OK, my car's just over there. Do you think you can make it?"

 _Non._

She manages a nod.

"My purse . . ." She looks towards her handbag resting on the ground a few feet away. It is absurd to worry about personal belongings at a time like this but her phone is in there, filled to the brim with contact information for DYAD and Topside, _and the sisters_. She should have erased all information, all history but she thought . . . she thought she'd have more time. It was foolish of her.

Of course, it would be naive to think that any of the numbers in her phone would be new to DYAD, or even Neolution but she would still be an idiot to leave them lying about for anyone to find. Why take that risk? Some of the contacts may prove valuable to the sisters also. She would have given her phone to Cosima if it wasn't certain to arouse suspicion in the clone.

And then there is the robotic maggot she pulled from Nealon's mouth, concealed in a plastic sleeve at the bottom of her bag. She returned to DYAD in hopes of using its equipment to perform what tests she could on it in the time that remained to her. However, she overestimated exactly how much time that was.

But Shay can pass it along to Cosima. The obscene curiosity will be of interest to her; she will be only too eager to look at it, to investigate. Delphine can imagine her now, hands in energetic motion as she exclaims over the genius of the invention, becomes lost in the science of it all.

She holds this image to her heart as Shay steadies her against the car and bends down to retrieve the bag. Draws upon it for strength as the other woman rises once more and wraps an arm around her for support.

"OK, let's do this."

...

 **A/N: So what did you think? And what the fuck was Shay doing at DYAD?**


	2. Shock

**A/N: Oh wow look an update! I just want to say how grateful (and amazed) I am by the response to this story. I really didn't think many people would be interested and to find out that you are and that you like it (so far) really, I'm so grateful. Hope I don't let you down :)**

 **So I spent a lot of time doing research for the medical parts of this fic (a _lot_ of time) and eventually I just gave up because it was detracting too much from the writing. So I've tried to be as accurate as possible but there will be errors, just a warning. I have absolutely no medical qualifications so it's basically just stuff I've garnered from the internet. I think (well I'm hoping) that everyone's more focused on the story rather than the technical things so it won't be a huge problem.**

 **Anyway, without further ado, go forth my pretties and read!**

...

 _" **SHOCK, n:** the impact or encounter of individuals or groups in combat; a disturbance in the equilibrium or permanence of something; a sudden strong unpleasant or upsetting feeling; a state of profound depression of the vital processes associated with reduced blood volume and pressure and caused usually by severe especially crushing injuries, hemorrhage, or burns."_

When Delphine wakes, it's to cold fingers at her neck. Her first thought is that someone is trying to strangle her and she shudders away. However, the opening of her eyes reveals the blurred figure of a familiar blonde.

"Your pulse is faster than I'd like," she says, retracting her hand. "But better than it could be considering." Her gaze travels down to the prone woman's midsection, lips thinning. "Come on, we need to get inside."

At her words, Delphine realizes that she is hunched over in the passenger seat of Shay's car, a fastened seat belt the only thing holding her up right. From what she can see, they have left the underground car park and are now in a minimally populated shared garage. She tries to remember passing out - whether it had been before or after she got in the car - but cannot. Her last memory is of struggling to rise from the ground, intent on making the short but far too long distance to the other woman's car.

She blinks, struggling to orient, pain crystallizing the present and drawing her attention to her wound. Her hand is still there, loose where it was once applying pressure, a job that the strap of her seat belt has been arranged to take over. The reminder makes her press down once more.

She is too exhausted, too disorientated to help Shay as she moves to unfasten her seatbelt. Biting down on her lip, the other woman inspects the wound, and the smell of peaches assaults Delphine as blonde hair brushes her face.

"You're beginning to bleed through . . ."

She withdraws, disappearing for a moment to duck into the backseat. Delphine closes her eyes on a shallow breath, trying to steady the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She feels shaky, a painful mix of too hot and too cold that leaves her nauseous.

Her mind calculates, analyzes the facts to form the most likely diagnosis: the beginning of hypovolemic shock. She needs blood and intravenous to counteract, none of which are available to her now, or will ever be. The most she can hope for is a stop to the bleeding, and that her body will endure long enough to create new blood cells.

It might be too tall an order.

Shay returns in an instant, a thin red scarf - meant more for ascetic purposes than warmth - in hand, which she promptly wraps tight around the wound. Delphine grimaces and forces herself to lean forward to accommodate the action.

"M-My jacket . . ." She gasps. It seems only fair that she use her own clothes to dress her injury, especially considering Shay has very little left to give. The night is cold and up this close, Delphine can see the rising goose bumps on the younger woman's bare flesh, its only protection a faded mauve bra.

Shay shivers as she finishes tying off the makeshift bandage but shakes her head. "No, you need to say warm. Last thing we need right now is for you to get hypothermia." She glances up from the wound to meet Delphine's gaze. "You're a doctor, so I take it you know what I'm talking about."

She tries to nod but her muscles can't quite manage it."Oui-" _Breathe._ "Yes."

Shay sighs before reaching for her again, arms snaking around her trembling form. "Come on. We're wasting time."

It is only by divine intervention or perhaps the universe's form of pity, that they manage to stumble their way out of the garage and into Shay's apartment.

"Thank god I'm on the first floor," the smaller woman mutters, finishing up with her fumbling to open the door and reaching out for Delphine once more. The doctor has been leaning against the wall, eyes closed, body drooping further and further towards the floor. The idea of falling into a puddle and remaining there is beginning to sound tempting.

The touch startles her and she flinches, eyes snapping open.

Shay offers a smile that isn't entirely sincere but still attempts to be reassuring. "It's open. Come on."

Delphine has been in Shay's apartment twice before and neither times pose fond memories for her. With the addition of this one - a new low - it seems the trend will not be broken anytime soon. She remembers in her first visit, taking a brief scan of the place, and finding it entirely too bohemian for her - a bath tub in the entrance room, really?

But not so for Cosima. It struck her as a place that her girlfriend - _former_ girlfriend would . . . love. A place that she would even find herself at home in.

The knowledge stung. Even know, it pricks at the last vestiges of her heart.

She tries not to think about that, though, as she and Shay stumble over to the bed, the other woman lowering her carefully down onto the comforter. Delphine forces herself to remain upright and not tumble back into the alluring depths of unconsciousness.

There is the sound of rifling, things knocking over and the occasional swear word. Delphine closes her eyes and breathes.

When Shay returns, it is prepared. She has a first aid kit in hand, some scissors and a bowl of water from the kitchen. And towels, lots of towels. Opening the kit, she retrieves some rolled cotton, several rolls of gauze and some gloves. She puts the gloves on with a snap, despite the fact that most of the damage posed by contamination has already been done.

Hands hesitating over Delphine's wound, she takes a deep breath and begins the process of unwrapping the poor excuse for a bandage. "I'm . . . It's been a long time since I've done this so . . ." She trails off, a nervousness in the shake of her voice that she tries to hide.

Delphine winches as the last layer is pulled away, her skin sticking to it and pulling at the wound. She exhales when it is over. "You were a Health Care Specialist-" Another breath. "In the military?"

Shay hesitates but soon moves on, cutting off some cotton pads and sinking them into the bowl of water. She presses the pad into her wound, moving it in a circular motion to clean. Delphine gasps, nails digging into the bedsheets as she closes her eyes against the agony.

"Sorry," she says, not sounding apologetic at all. "So, you were the one behind that background check, huh?" She shakes her head, smiling at her own naivety. "Of course you were." After cleaning the surrounding area, she cuts off another piece which she uses to pat dry the wound. "Yeah, I was a medic. But that was a . . . _long_ time ago."

Delphine thinks about apologizing but, like Shay, it would insincere. She cannot find it in her to be sorry for looking out for Cosima, for doing her best to ensure her safety. She will never be sorry for that. And she will not insult Shay now by lying to her.

She doubts her ability to lie through the pain, anyhow.

She moves around her and begins cleaning the exit wound on her back, dipping a new piece of padding into the water. "It's good that it was such a clean shot. Straight through, I saw the bullet embedded in the car. If we're lucky, it missed your vital organs."

Delphine nods, wincing the invasive motion. She was indeed lucky. She's no ballistic expert but she knows bullets have a tendency to fragment, shards exploding out and making a mess of all surrounding organs. They can also go on a a bit journey before leaving the body, if they ever do. A bullet entering the chest might end up exiting through the neck, or a buttock, tearing through the multitude of organs in its wake.

Hers was direct in its passage, though. It's perhaps the only good luck she's had since this whole mess began.

"Has it started to clot yet?" She tries to get a look herself but her vision is hazy, dark spots dancing in and out.

"A little . . ."

Shay reaches for the rolled cotton and scissors, snipping some off in order to make a sizable padding. Delphine loses focus for a moment, coming to when her stomach cries out as the padding is pressed down, almost in. Shay ignores her flinch, replicating the process with the wound on her back, and Delphine clenches her fists against the pain. Grabbing the a roll of gauze, she then sets about wrapping it around her midsection, over and over again, keeping the padding in place.

"Can you keep pressure on the front one?" she asks, not waiting for a reply before pressing down on the exit wound.

Delphine exhales a shaky breath but manages to maneuver a hand to do so. She cannot remember the last time she felt so weak, like her limbs might fall off under their own weight. No, that is a lie.

There is an image of water lapping around her, flushing scarlet with the descent of time and, for a moment, the pain in her stomach extends to her wrists. It is a phantom sensation, mocking her and her nails dig into the bedsheets, fighting to dispel it.

"I should call Cosima."

The statement brings her back, making her flinch. " _No_." she protests even as the thought of Cosima, by her side, holding her hand through the pain awakes a awful yearning in her.

The younger woman blinks. "You can't be serious? She should be here."

She takes a breath, tries to find that power and intimidation that has served her so well _(not so well)_ whilst masquerading in Rachel's shoes. It is an attribute still so foreign to her. "No."

"Look, I don't know the story with you guys, and by this point I don't really give a damn, but I know that she loves you." She swallows, avoiding Delphine's gaze. She can make out the hurt, though, the exhaustion; the same feelings that have been dogging her for months. For a moment she feels empathy for Shay, for this woman who has so far only held her contempt and, at one point, even loathing. Delphine chose to become tangled up in this mess, first when she joined DYAD and then again when she sided with Cosima and her sisters. She _chose_ this. And it's becoming increasingly apparent that Shay's only choice was to accept a date over the internet. _But is this really what you had in mind that day, when you left that report behind for to find?_ "She should be here. In case."

In case her blood loss proves to severe; in case the damage rout by the bullet is more than her body can contend with; in case she goes into shock and her heart gives out under stress; in case a surgery she cannot have becomes the only option left to her.

Delphine shakes her head, though. "In case is exactly why she can't be here. I won't have her see this. See that. If I die," the word shouldn't be so painful, she has long since accepted the inevitability of her fate, "Cosima will only blame herself."

Shay crosses her arms, still seeming unconvinced, and she begins to panic. What if she calls her anyway. She can't have her here - she wants her here - she can't - if she sees this - but she needs her - Cosima can't -

"You owe me nothing, I know this. But for Cosima's sake. If I die, she cannot know. I will not do that to her."

Shay reels back as if slapped. "You want me to _lie_ to her?"

Delphine hardens her gaze. "Because you have been so opposed to the idea in the past?"

"This is a little bit bigger than whether or not I still practice Chinese Medicine," she says flatly.

The doctor hesitates. " _Please_. It will ruin her."

Shay purses her lips but doesn't protest again. "Fine."

She grabs one of Delphine's hands, maneuvering it behind to take her place over the wound. "You need fluids," she explains, rising and quickly fetching a glass of water. When she returns, she holds it carefully to Delphine's lips, helping her to take a grateful sip. "An IV would be great . . ." Delphine takes another swallow and Shay bites down on her lip. "I called someone."

She nearly chokes. _Cosima-_

But, no, they went over this. " _Qui_?" She shakes her, for a moment the English failing to come to mind. "Who?"

Shay lowers the glass. "A friend. He's safe, trustworthy. He's also a trauma surgeon. I called him in the car."

Why do they need a surgeon? The thought appears, laughable for the instant it takes to answer. She shivers but accepts when Shay raises the glass for her to take another sip.

The world fades in and out, realigns. Several times, she finds herself struggling to remember where she is.

"Delphine." There's a hand on her cheek, hot, too hot. She draws back. The hand slips to her neck, feeling the racing thud of a pulse beneath. It smacks the skin there, bidding for attention. "Delphine!"

" _Ici_." She is a girl, caught dazing off in class, lost in daydreams and nightmares alike. The professor's voice snaps down on her, clawing her back.

"Delphine, I need you tell me what's going on," the professor demands. The girl shies away. "What are you feeling?"

She blinks, the world focuses, and Shay is there, face close to hers, hand on her neck. There's a smudge of red on her nose - blood. " _Froid_."

There is something in her throat, fighting her breath and she chokes, coughs. She doubles over, head narrowly missing a collision with Shay's, and raises a hand to her mouth. Burning, her throat is burning, strangling her. Her hand comes away covered in blood but she can't remember if it was always that way. There is so much blood on her now.

Fear spikes at her chest as the light begins to fade. Is this what Nealon felt, at the end?

"Breathe." The voice is a reminder and she takes in a gasp, closing her eyes against the hand that soothes up and down her back. "You're OK. You're OK."

That is a lie. She has not been OK for a very long time, and she is certainly not OK now. But she lets the lie wash over her, ease the strain of her muscles as she allows herself to be eased down onto the bed.

"I've got you, just breathe."

Darkness comes with the feel of a hand against her face and she lets herself sink into it.

Will Cosima be there, waiting for her in its depths?

...

 **So yay or nay? It wasn't a very long chapter but I figured something was better than nothing. I'm going to aim (no promises) to update once a week. The next chapter will be from Shay's P.O.V. Also, if there's anything any of you guys want to see happen send me a message! I might not be able to include it (depending on if it fits with where I'm going with this, I've got a pretty clear picture in my head) but some inspiration would be great :) Also, I'd just love to hear from you!**

 **Translations:**

 **Froid: cold**

 **Qui: who, whom**

 **Ici: here**


	3. Blood

**A/N: OK, so here it is! Chapter three! Wooh. And the longest one yet too! Thankyou so much for your reviews and support and I hope I continue to please you. I'm estimating that there's going to be about 25-30 chapters, so we've got a bit of a journey ahead of us (prayer circle that I finish this monstrosity, anyone who's seen my page will know I'm terrible at finishing things, sorry!).**

 **Again, please excuse any medical inaccuracies.**

 **And most importantly enjoy!**

 **...**

 _"Everybody is a book of blood; wherever we're opened, we're red."_

 _\- Clive Barker_

She's trying not to notice the blood on her hands, up her arms, down her pants. Drops litter the floor, a trail of bread crumbs over to the equally ruined bed. It clashes with the cream walls and the soothing design of the place.

She can't believe that once again, her home, her sanctuary, has been invaded, tainted; and no amount of antiseptic will make it clean again. She knows how this works.

Shivering, Shay wraps her arms around herself, momentarily forgetting the blood on her hands. She curses when it transfers to the jumper she's thrown on (thank god, it's cheap and already going raggedy). She doesn't wrap them, though. Damage done, and besides, it feels safer.

The shaking won't stop. It's not the cold. The jumper protects from that and the heater's on. She turned it up in an effort to keep Delphine's body temperature from dropping any lower. But still, she's trembling like a live wire.

 _There's screaming-_

No there's not.

 _So much screaming-_

Her nails sink into her arm, and she wills her mind to go deaf. It almost works.

The knock on the door makes her jump and for a moment all she can do is stare, heart pounding. It takes time for reality to realign, for the situation to make sense. Eventually she remembers herself and moves to answer. The knocks grow ever louder and insistent, though, a sign that she has waited too long.

Shay can't blame his impatience. Her voice on the phone was panicked, and a request for surgical supplies and a surgeon is bound to freak anyone out. There was no time to explain then, though, or rather she didn't think she _could_ explain.

She's not sure she knows what's going on herself.

Her ex's ex is dying on her bed from a gunshot wound and she . . . she has no idea what to do with that.

"It's bad," she says immediately upon pulling open the door, skipping the wasteful formalities. Questions can be asked later, when every minute Delphine spends unattended detracts from her chances of survival.

He doesn't look impressed. His clothes are rumpled and she knows she disturbed him from his sleep - a quick nap he was probably taking in between shifts at the hospital - and the dark circles under his eyes speak of exhaustion. She knows the feeling, and guilt gnaws at her as she steps back for him to enter.

He hesitates, eyeing her from head to toe, relief melting his features when he finds her unharmed. "So who's the patient?"

Straight to business. Good. She can answer that. She can do that.

"Delphine." She moves to take one of the heavy bags he brought but he shakes her off, already heading over to the bed. "Gunshot wound to the upper right quadrant. Massive blood loss leading to Hypovolemic shock. She needs intravenous and blood transfusions," she rattles off, following after him.

He frowns, bending over Delphine and inspecting the bandages she's applied. "Exit wound?"

"On the back. Clean shot. Bullet went straight through." She takes a breath. "But I think there's internal bleeding. Maybe liver trauma?"

He nods to himself, prodding the doctor's swollen abdomen with a frown. "Consciousness?"

"In and out."

"Alright. I'll definitely have to go in, put a stop to that bleeding," he decides, reaching for one of the bags and pulling out a pile of tubing, some syringes and an intravenous bag. "But first I want to stabilize her a bit. Do you know what her blood type is?"

"No. I'm O negative though." Being a universal donor and seeing how necessary blood was to a patient's survival throughout her military career, she's made a habit of donating at least every three months. She might not be in the field anymore, or working as an EMT at the local hospital, but she can still contribute in some way.

Taking a peak into one of his bags, her eyebrows shoot up. "What did you do? Raid an ambulance?"

His look is scolding but he also doesn't deny it. Perhaps it's best she doesn't know how he came by all these things, just be thankful that he did.

"Alright, let's get started then."

…

Shay is a patient person but, at times like these, her nerves get the better of her. Sitting on the bed beside Delphine, watching her blood being pumped into her through the use of a transfusion kit, is not a calming process. Waiting for her to stabilize whilst keeping a wary eye open for signs that she's taken a turn for the worse is nerve wracking.

It's not something she's missed from her days as a medic

It's a precarious balancing act, what they're doing. They need her stable enough to survive surgery; but if they wait too long the internal bleeding will kill her.

Neal takes the time to set up his surgical supplies and to try and ensure that the environment is as sterile as possible - a difficult task when the site of operation is her _bed_ ; she hasn't even changed the sheets since the last time she had sex there. She really needs to do that, she can't spend another night falling asleep to the scent of Cosima. A traitorous part of her is reluctant to see it go, though.

Cosima's the first person she's had any strong feelings for since-

Well, she's not quite ready to let go of that yet.

Neal mutters darkly about risk for infection and sepsis but otherwise doesn't complain. Shay knows that what they're doing, what they're about to do, is risky and that the prognosis isn't optimistic. But it's not as though they have any other options.

She's explained why the hospital's a no-go, to a degree. There's only so much she can say when she herself doesn't know the exact reason why it's out. He'd _hrumphed_ , bushy eyebrows furrowing in displeasure, and scolded her for getting involved in the first place.

' _You're in over your head, Shay.'_

He's not wrong.

She digs her nails into the sensitive skin of her thighs, straining to relieve the tension. Again, she thinks of calling Cosima. It doesn't sit right with her, keeping this secret. Whatever their history, whatever wrongs between them, she doesn't wish the scientist any harm (she wishes oh so many things when it comes to her but not that). Or Delphine (although she wouldn't be opposed to a pigeon coming along and doing a crap in her perfect hair). And she knows that if the doctor dies and Cosima doesn't know, if she doesn't get to say _goodbye_ . . .

It's not a pain she would wish on anyone.

But Delphine's words from earlier keep her still. They were confusing, and fueled by a delirious kind of panic, but Delphine believed them; Shay could tell that much. She _believed_ that keeping Cosima in the dark was the best thing for her. It doesn't make any kind of sense to Shay but she also doesn't know the full extent of what's going on. She doesn't know the situation or what led to Delphine being shot in the parking lot of an expensive, high security institute.

She has to trust that Delphine knows what's best.

Which is hard, considering she's always seemed borderline psychotic to her and not the kind of person you should trust with _anything_.

"Her blood pressure's going back up," Neal declares and Shay glances over at the automatic monitor he'd brought with him. She's relieved to find his observations correct. Delphine is indeed improving. At least, in that regard.

She'll take any good news she can get at this point.

"And her pulse is beginning to slow," he adds after feeling Delphine's wrist for a few minutes. "I think we should get started."

She knows he's right, that they've only got a thin window between now and Delphine's vitals deteriorating once more. As long as she's bleeding internally, she's going to get worse and there's only so much blood that Shay can give - it's not nearly as much as she would get in a hospital setting.

Still, she feels uneasy.

It's been a long time since she's witnessed a surgery, and she was never a key player in such a scene. She's a medic, her role was always to rescue stabilize. Fixing was left to the surgeons and other more qualified personal.

She's not sure how much help she'll be.

But it's not as though they have a choice.

Neal's already in motion, inserting a prepared syringe into the flesh near Delphine's wound site. It's the local anesthetic and she grimaces. It's far from ideal. In a surgery like this, the proper anesthesia would be general, spinal or an epidural. However, neither of them are anesthesiologists fit with the knowledge of dosages and how to control them. To administer either could prove fatal.

The local will still help, but it won't block out the entire effects. She'll still feel what's going on if she wakes up but the pain at least will be dulled. Shay just doesn't know how much. It's not as though this is standard practice. There's nothing to compare it to, nothing to recommend what the experience will be like.

Upon removing the gauze and padding, Shay is relieved to see that the bleeding has stopped, at least externally. Of course, that won't last long now that they're about to open her up but . . . small victories.

"I'll ask you to pass me these," he tells her, gesturing at the tray of surgical tools he's set up. He hesitates. "As soon as I open, I'll tie off the blood vessels, so the bleeding will be minimal. Are you going to be OK with this?"

Her response is immediate, if slightly shaky. "Yeah. I'll be fine."

He doesn't look convinced but let's it go. "If she wakes up, hold her still."

Shay nods her understanding, face blank over the squirming of her insides. She's starting to feel the effects of the transfusion, her shaking down to more than just nerves or cold now. Keeping herself from throwing up when she first found Delphine, and later when bandaging her wound was hard enough. She's not sure her stomach can handle the sight of more blood now.

It'll have to.

Her lips thin as she watches the scalpel press down into Delphine's bruising stomach, carving out the midline incision. But she has to look away after the first drop of blood comes trickling out.

 _Од_ _и_ _н, два, три . . ._

…

 _Blood bubbles up over hands, thick and steaming. It's everywhere now, submerging all in its path._

No, the blood is controlled. There is red on her hands but it is not hot, it does not seep. It has dried into her skin. There is no flow to stop.

She closes her eyes and breathes.

 _Remember the techniques. Root yourself in the now._

She branches out, searching, reaching for that faraway anchor. Her breath is too panicked to be an assurance, her heart too fast, and the scents that surround her a mix of sterilization, blood and sweat. The hand in hers twitches and she stiffens. Squeezing, she focuses on the cold limb inside hers, the texture of smooth skin and the weak throb of a pulse. She does this for a minute or so, waiting for her breathing to calm and the violent thud of her heart to abate.

It's a struggle but she gets there.

Exhausted, she gives herself a mental pat on the back. It's been a long time since she's had to do that.

Frowning, Shay moves her focus to the cause of all this. Delphine's skin has taken on a pale, clammy sheen in the past hour or so and, despite the warmth of the room, she is still cool to the touch.

Her blood supply à la Shay was cut off about ten minutes ago. Neal insisted and no amount of protest on her part could sway him. Logically, she knew he was right. The body struggled to cope with acute blood loss at a volume of twenty percent or more. They'd found that out during World War II when taking blood from volunteers; it's why donors today only give up to ten percent. She suspects, with the dizziness and accelerated heart rate, she gave more than that, though. But that could just be her own anxiety.

Even so, it's not enough.

For Delphine to have gotten stage IV hypovolemic shock she must have lost at least forty percent of her blood, which can be fatal. Add to that the blood loss from surgery . . .

She's not sure her little donation will count much.

As long as they keep her below the forty mark though, Delphine has a chance, and once Neal gets the internal bleeding under control, her levels will stop decreasing.

 _Од_ _и_ _н, два, три, четыре_ _. . ._

"You were right," he states after some poking around. She's trying not to look. "The bullet lacerated the liver, badly. That's what's causing the bleeding."

"And her other organs?" There'll be hell to pay if there's damage to the intestines or gallbladder. If she gets peritonitis, that's not something they can treat here.

"Seems unharmed. I'm gonna search around a bit to check, though, but first I'll stitch up this liver. How are her vitals looking?"

She doesn't need to glance at the blood pressure monitor, she's barely looked away since the surgery began. She's still got a hold of Delphine's wrist as well, absentmindedly paying attention to the reassuring throb of life against her skin. "Stable."

"Good. That's good."

They continue on in relative silence. Shay is too tense for her usual chatter but Neal makes the occasional comment or question _(_ _'Annie's driving me up the wall with her nesting, we've already redesigned the nursing twice,_ twice _Shay; I had a guy come into the ER yesterday, stuck his penis in a beehive; have you made any headway on planning your end of year trip to Barcelona? That_ _'s still on right?')._ Her responses are soft, often monosyllabic, but she's grateful for his attempt to distract her.

They're halfway through the surgery when Delphine wakes up. Shay's ready for it, she's been holding her breath for every possible eventuality (most of them negative). So when the older woman gasps, she surges forward and places a steadying hand on her shoulder. The action comes just in time, holding her down as she near jerks in panic and pain.

"Hey," Shay soothes, leaning forward even further so that Delphine can glimpse her face, her eyes. She knows how to do this. She's done this before, many times. Just like riding a bike. Yeah, right. "You're OK."

" _Que_?" she glances wildly around, stiffening when she catches sight of Neal, still determinedly focused on his work. He won't look up, won't spare her that much attention, but Shay can see from the sudden stiffness in his shoulders that he's listening closely.

"It's OK," Shay murmurs, trying to bring Delphine's attention back on her. She can see the panic rising, the harshness of her breaths as she catches sight of the horror show she's a part of. If Shay woke up in the middle of surgery, she would freak out too. "You were shot, remember? Brought you back home and fixed you up, but you went into shock. You passed out. Internal bleeding. Medium laceration to the liver." She wouldn't normally bombard a patient with all this information but she knows Cosima and Delphine operate in a world of science. Maybe the woman will find the details of her state a comfort, maybe. "This is Neal, the trauma surgeon I told you about. He's finishing up the sutures on your liver now. Then he's going to do a bit more a of a check, just to see if there's any more damage, OK?" He's already talked her through this, more for her benefit than Delphine's. "Then we'll close. Simple, right?"

Delphine's gaze flickers once more in Neal's direction, her expression anxious but thoughtful as she rushes to calculate this new information.

"Hello, Delphine," Neal greets with false joviality, still not looking up.

She hesitates. " _Bonjour_."

"Ah, French!" he exclaims. "I love the French. I met my wife in Paris. She's from Nice. Do you know Nice?"

Delphine's stopped listening, though. Her eyes have found the surgical sight again and her already pale complexion whitens as she takes in the skin pulled back by forceps, the tools poking out and the top of what happens to be her liver.

Shay squeezes her shoulder. _Look at me_. "Hey. You in any pain? _Delphine_." She exhales in relief when she catches her attention again. "Are you in any pain?"

" _Oui_." She frowns. "Yes."

The RMT frowns, having hoped for a different answer. "We could only give you local anesthetic . . ."

" _Ça va_. It's fine."

She chances a look at Neal who nods at her, expression clear: keep her distracted.

Easier said than done.

She remembers her childhood pony, Merrylegs; how he'd galloped through a wire fence after being spooked by a coyote. How terrified he was when she found him, tangled up in barbed wire and writhing viciously in a tangled heap on the ground. He'd been so desperate to get free, to escape, and in that flight mode everything was a threat, everything was a source of panic. The whistle of a bird; the crack of brittle grass under foot; the backfire of a truck in the distance; _her_ , known to him since birth . . .

It all made him flinch.

But she had to get him to calm, to stop twisting. The barbs were digging dipper into his skin with each struggle, the band around his neck pulling tighter. If she couldn't get him to still . . .

"Talk to me about something," she orders, using her free hand to grasp hold of Delphine's, trying to draw her back. "Doesn't matter what. Just talk."

There is a shuddering breath and the muscles of her abdomen contract, causing yet further pain if the following groan is anything to go by.

She made her voice calm then, soothing. When he let her get close enough to touch, she found that spot at the center of his muzzle and massaged it. Slowly, she moved her index finger up and down in a rhythmic motion - just as her grandfather had taught her.

Tentatively, she moves the hand resting on Delphine's shoulder up to her head. Gently, she strokes her hand through her hair, trying to soothe.

" _Je_ . . ." Another breath, a frown. Perhaps she's trying to find the words, translate them into English. "I think I need a holiday."

The laugh she chokes on is part disbelieving, part frayed nerves. But there's some amusement too, small though it is. _So, jealous bitch has a sense of humor._ She wasn't expecting that.

Maybe she got a laugh out of scaring Shay shitless.

She pushes the stray thought back. Not now. She can think about what Delphine did to her later, when she's not lying cut open on her bed. Right now, she's her patient. Not the woman who came into her home and terrorized her.

 _Compartmentalization, Davydov. You know how it_ _'s done._

"Sounds like a good idea. Where would you go?"

The answer doesn't interest her. She doesn't like Delphine, possesses even a small amount of hate for her. There are very few places that Shay feels safe. One, actually. Her home. And it took years to make it so, for her to trust that inside its four walls she could do away with her own, internal ones.

Delphine ruined that. She'd barged in without invitation, bodyguards in toe and told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was going to slice her open. Let her bleed out in the bathtub to be staged as some sort of suicide.

In the space of an hour, her safe place was gone.

And she can't forgive Delphine for that. She's not even sure she can forgive Cosima for whatever role she played in the violation. The brunette said she didn't know but Cosima says a lot, and doesn't say a lot, and Shay has no idea how much of it is true.

She gets secrets. She has her own. She knows why some need to be kept, and why others are just too hard to give voice.

But her secrets have never nearly gotten someone killed.

" _Je ne sais_ ," Delphine manages after a pained pause. "Somewhere far away."

"Not France?"

"Non." The answer is quick, sure, and Shay doesn't push the topic. Doesn't care enough to.

Delphine's hair is tangled and damp, some of it beginning to curl. In the midst of her steady motions, her fingers get caught in a snare. Delicately, careful not to alert her to the problem, she works it free and continues on.

"Ever been to Barcelona?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "It's great. It'll be like 12 o'clock at night and you'll have kids running around, playing on the streets. It's crazy." She bites her lip. "You've heard of Gaudi's church right? La Sagrada Familia? It looks so insane in photos, an architectural mess . . . but in real life? I've never seen anything so amazing. The detail, the colors. There's these stained glass windows so when you go inside, the floor glows with colors. It's beautiful."

She closes her eyes for the memory, savoring. She was happy there, at peace. Two emotions that were a lot easier to find back then. She feels the ghost of a hand holding hers and flinches, opening her eyes.

She's stayed in the memory too long.

Chancing a look at Delphine to see if she's noticed, she's relieved to find the other woman has little attention for much outside her own situation, her own pain. Her eyes, too, are closed.

"You should take C-Cosima there," she murmurs, almost too quiet to be heard.

Shay hardens. "Let's not talk about Cosima." Except now she's there, in the conversation, an elephant between them, refusing to leave. She catches Neal sparing them a curious glance and she knows there'll be questions later. "Though, if we were to talk about Cosima, how about the part where she's not here. And she should be."

Delphine looks away and Shay resists the urge to roll her eyes, allowing the subject to drop. So she's a little bit catty at the moment, she has a right to be. She's ruined two of her favorite tops in a mission to save the life of her possibly ex girlfriend's psycho ex girlfriend who likes to threaten her in her spare time. She deserves a goddamn medal, really.

It's not easy for her, doing this. Not that something like this could ever be easy but . . .

It never used to be so hard.

There's a reason she left the military.

"You're shaking."

Shay detects a note of worry in the breathless voice, which is only reasonable. She would be worried too if one of the people meant to save her life was coming apart in a shivering mess.

' _If you want a horse to calm,_ you _have to be calm. Horses are empathic creatures,_ моя Принцесса _, they sense what you feel. Never bring anger into a paddock, never bring fear. They will know. And they will be afraid._ _'_

She counts backwards in her head _(_ _четыре,три, два, Один)_ , forcing her breath to even out, her heart to slow.

"It's cold." It's not. Even disregarding her jumper, the room is near sweltering thanks to the heater. It's possible she was a tad too liberal when turning up the dial. "Keep talking."

She won't admit it but it's no longer just about trying to ensure that Delphine remains conscious. She needs a distraction. Her stomach has been turning for the past thirty minutes and she's tried to ignore it but . . .

She closes her eyes once more.

 _Deep breaths, Davydov. Deep breaths._

"Should I be worried that you look so scared?" Delphine chokes and the crinkle of her eyes is going for teasing but she doesn't quite manage it. Shay won't judge, she does have someone else's hand inside her after all - and not in the way that could ever be pleasurable.

"Hell no," she bluffs. "Trust me, this is definitely not the worse I've seen. One time in the field, a guy had half his side blown off by a land mine. Arm and leg just . . . gone. Luckily, the fire from the bomb cauterized the wounds so he didn't bleed out. Kept him alive long enough for us to get to him. But he had like shrapnel buried in just . . . everywhere. The surgeons had to open him up and take them out, piece by piece. Took them 19 hours."

It's strange, even as she says the words, she's not really there. She doesn't see the man or the burn sights, the smell of burnt flesh or the agony of his screams. She knows it happened because she read the report after. She knows what the soldiers who were there have said. She can picture it even.

But the memory is just . . . gone.

She has lot of memories like that. And some so sharp, so clear that they refuse to go away.

She prefers the former. She prefers the dark holes in her past over the nightmares that visit her day and night.

"Did he live?"

Shay pauses a moment, biting her lip. There is something like hope in the doctor's eyes. "No," she admits softly, already regretting telling this story. She's usually better at giving pep talks. "But still . . . worse."

Delphine lets out a sound that might be a chuckle but might also be an incredulous snort. "Somehow, your story fails to be comforting."

"I had a woman in my OR with gunshot wounds to the heart and cranium," Neal pipes up, seeming to sense that Shay is failing in her endeavor.

"Did you save her?"

"Of course." He looks almost insulted that she would think otherwise.

Her lips quirk in an almost smile before she returns her gaze to the patient. She stiffens.

"Delphine?"

Delphine has, if possible, become even paler and Shay can not only feel but see her shaking. Her eyes are shut, her features slack, without the earlier signs of pain. Her first response is relief - the rest of the surgery will pass much smoother without her conscious - but that soon fades when she catches sight of the monitor. Her blood pressure is dropping again. "Shit."

She moves the fingers of the hand that's holding Delphine's down to her wrist, searching. It's weak. "Neal."

"I know, I'm done. Closing her up now."

The pulse skips a beat and Shay grits her teeth, watching the rise and fall of Delphine's chest cautiously. Mentally, she runs through the process of CPR, something she hasn't had to perform in years. She remembers the mechanics, though, perhaps not as well as she once did but enough to suffice.

 _Один, два-_

She counts the beat of Delphine's pulse. _Hang in there._

The pulse oximeter she clipped onto the finger of Delphine's other hand reveals the oxygen saturation in her blood to be dropping. And fast. The last time she looked at it, the reading was hovering between 94 and 95 percent. As she watches, it flickers down to 89.

Automatically, she reaches for the oxygen mask she set up shortly after Neal arrived. She used it then for the first fifteen minutes of trying to stabilize Delphine, tempting her levels back up into a nice 95.

The oxygen cylinder is resting up against her headboard, beneath her golden Buddha statue (good old Yogin looks as serene as ever, despite his surroundings becoming a bonafide disaster zone). The flowmeter is still set to 15 LPM from earlier. Hastily, she fills up the oxygen bag, nearly forgetting to stop two thirds of the way. There's a hiss, signally the flow of air from the cylinder, through the tubing into the bag.

 _He_ _'s choking, choking on his own blood, the air struggling to find its way into his suffering lungs-_

Delphine's head sags back like a doll _(a dead doll)_ when she raises it up to apply the mask. Her hair gets caught in the process, cutting across her mouth and she swipes it away a little too harshly. Gently, she lowers her back down, smoothing her sweat soaked hair back from her forehead.

She flinches back when a red stain appears on the whitened skin - not all the blood on her hands is dry.

 _Один, два-_

" _Neal_."

"And we're done."

She's about to respond, her hand squeezing Delphine's too tight, when her back pocket vibrates. _'_ _You would not believe your eyes, if ten million fireflies . . ._ _'_

She hesitates, eyeing Delphine's limp form, her still dangerously low blood pressure, but Neal nods at her to take it and . . . she needs the distraction. Besides, it might be Styles. Tugging off one of her soiled gloves, she clumsily retrieves the phone, almost dropping it in her haste.

Her stomach clenches when she sees Cosima's name flashing across the screen.

' _. . .'Cause everything is never as it seems . . .'_

 _..._

 **So...**

 **What did you think? Did you like my version of Shay? Hate it? Honesty is the best policy (but don't be too brutal, I have a fragile spongy heart).**

 **Shay's ringtone is Fireflies by _Owl City_. I don't know, I was listening to it the other day and thought it was the kind of band she might like. Though who knows, maybe in cannon she rocks out to heavy metal. **

**Oh, and 10 points to whoever knows where Shay's horse's name comes from. And google is cheating!**

 **Confession. I stole the story of her horse's accident from my childhood best friend (the same thing happened to her horse, minus the coyote).**

 **Also, just because I'm a shameless self-promoter, I made a cophine video if anyone's interested watch?v=VoPbh75YSes**

 _ **Translations:**_

 _ **Russian (I kind of ran with the fact that Davydov is a Russian surname, heh)**_

 _ **Один, два, три, четыре, пять: one, two, three, four, five**_

 _ **моя Принцесса = my princess**_

 _ **French**_

 _ **Que? = what?**_

 _ **Bonjour = hello**_

 _ **Oui = yes**_

 _ **Ça va = I'm fine/it's ok**_

 _ **Je ne sais (pas) = I don't know**_


	4. Truth

**A/N: OK, so here it is, chapter 4. And I gotta say, I'm not happy with it. Not one bit. I struggled a lot with this chapter and it just . . . well I just couldn't get it to work. So I'm hoping it's not too bad but, yeah, sorry for that. Hopefully the next one will be better.**

 **Also, thankyou again so much for your comments. They are what keep me inspired and keep me writing so thankyou :)**

 **...**

 ** _"Truth Is Rarely Pure And Never Simple,"_**

 ** _\- Oscar Wilde, 'The Importance of Being Earnest'_**

Shay has a lot of secrets, most of them not her own. Observations, murmurs, keepsakes she's accumulated over time. She notices things, she always has. Like her father's hidden relationship with vodka, far more intimate and committed than any his ever had with his daughters; or how her grandmother wore scarves on the days she was upset, as if it to burrow her head away inside them; that for as long as she's known him, her grandfather has been deeply unhappy, even though he smiles the most out of all her family members; her mother's unbearable homesickness for Spain, how it's loss created an empty place inside her that no family could ever fill; the love Shay's father continued to bare for her mother even after they separated, a love he was never able to leave behind; and the two plane tickets to Barcelona - one adult, one child, no return - which she found in her mother's bedside table when she was seven.

She never breathed a word about any of it.

It was the same at school. Kids loved to gossip, and Shay loved to listen. They told her everything and she collected the information like nuggets of gold, pocketing them away inside her for safekeeping. Her friends trusted her with their secrets, spilling the most obscene things because over time it became known that Shay Davydov didn't tattle. She couldn't. She couldn't break that trust. And on some level she knew there was a reason behind their concealment; some things aren't meant to be told. She could see the patterns of hurt and destruction branching out in consequence if she ever opened her mouth. So she didn't.

Of course, sometimes it was hard, seeing so much, _knowing_ so much. Maybe that's why she held onto her own secrets, knowing the burden of keeping other people's. Or maybe she knew how easily a person revealed things, about themselves, about others, often without even meaning to, and knew they weren't trustworthy.

At any rate, she knows how to keep a secret.

That doesn't mean she likes to.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Shay closes the bathroom door behind her, hoping to give their conversation some semblance of privacy. She's not sure why it matters, she'll probably end up hashing the details of it out to Neal later anyway, so-

Maybe she just wants some separation. Between what's out there (Delphine, blood, panic) and what's in here (Cosima, her, their relationship, or lack thereof). She's not sure she can handle the two worlds meeting, not if she's to have this conversation with something approaching a clear head. Not if she's to keep her mouth shut.

"Surprised you answered," Cosima opens after a stretch. "I wasn't sure you would. It's late. Or early, I guess."

She wonders if that was her intention, to call and be sent straight to voice mail. To leave a message, and not have to actually _talk_. It's the coward's move but Shay can relate to its appeal.

Maybe she shouldn't have answered. Maybe that would have been better for both of them.

"Yeah, couldn't sleep." The words become a trigger and she cups a hand over her mouth to stop the intruding yawn. She's never been a night owl. If she's not out with friends, then she's in bed by nine o'clock. Her sleep is so restless that she needs the extra hours, especially since she usually rises early. "You?"

"Yeah," Cosima exhales. "I just . . . I wanted to apologize, for what happened."

Shay takes a seat on the toilet lid, hunches over. "You did that already."

"No, I mean, not for Delphine." The woman's name makes her stomach clench and her gaze finds the door, imagining what's taking place on the other side."For not telling you about this stuff. For not being able to tell you. I still can't. And I'm sorry."

 _I know._

She can hear it in her voice, saw it in her face when she came to her apartment that day, right before Shay told her to get out. She is sorry, she is.

But . . .

Shay sighs and looks down at the hand resting on her knee. There's blood up to her wrist, dried and caked, disappearing beneath her sleeve.

"It is what it is, I guess. And it's OK." It's not. It's really not. "But I can't be a part of that, Cosima."

The response is hasty, flustered. "Oh yeah no. I didn't, that's not why I called. I just," she breathes out and Shay feels her frustration, shares in it, " _really_ wanted to say sorry."

It shouldn't hurt, the fact that Cosima isn't trying for that (after all, isn't that what she _wants_?) but it does.

She forces a smile, even though it can't be seen. "Apology accepted."

"And thankyou," Cosima adds after pause, a breath to feel her acceptance. "You were . . ." Yet another pause, stretching on into a breathless silence. She wonders what she was, what she really was, to Cosima, of the feelings there. Was she merely a balm for blistering wounds? She offered herself as such, Shay can admit that. She saw Cosima's suffering and she wanted to help, to heal in whatever way she could. It's her own fault for investing so much in something that was never even given a name. "You've been really good to me. Too good." Cosima chuckles quietly to herself, self-deprecatingly. It doesn't suit her. "You're pretty awesome you know?"

The smile tears at her cheeks, small and sad. "It's been said."

' _Why didn't you tell me you were in the military, Shay?'_

 _Should I have told you? Really? We_ _'ve known each other for less than two weeks. Is that enough time to dredge up a past that no longer matters?_

She can't help but wonder now, why Cosima cared so much about her military background. It wasn't a secret she was purposefully hiding, rather a wound that was best left in the dark. So what could it have to do with Cosima's own secrets?

' _Because really, I think from day one, you've been the liar.'_

She knew, she knew from the very beginning that there were things between them left unsaid, stuff that just didn't add up. She thought to give Cosima time, to wait for her to open up. And if she didn't? Well that was her right.

She just didn't think the lies could prove so dangerous.

She thinks of the DYAD card waiting in her draw, calling for her, begging to be brought up. But that's a conversation for another time. Maybe. She hasn't decided yet. What would be the point, really, in using it? She wants Cosima to tell her the truth, not to force it from her. That's not trust, that's manipulation, pressure; two things a relationship should never be built on.

Or maybe it wouldn't be like that. Maybe it would be more of a 'well, your ex thinks I'm trustworthy so . . .'

The thought stings - the suggestion that Delphine trusts her (and Shay doubts she does) more than Cosima. Though that could have more to do with the brunette than Shay herself. A once bitten, twice shy kind of thing. Who knows?

She wants Cosima to trust her. If she can't do that, then it doesn't matter if Shay ever finds out what's going on - the information will be meaningless. She doesn't want to _take_ the secret - that would be a violation - she wants it to be given, freely. Anything else would only hurt Cosima and that's the last thing she wants. She just, she needs to know if she's wasting her time. If there's any hope for them.

From the way things are going, she's guessing the answer is no.

She rises from the toilet and paces to the bathroom door, peaking it open to check on how things are going outside. Neal's bent over Delphine, checking her vitals for what's probably the fifth time. She can see he's redone her bandages, as well as added his own to cover the fresh incision. She watches long enough to be sure of the rise and fall of Delphine's chest and turns away.

"Cosima, does Delphine have any . . . enemies?" She regrets the question almost as soon as she asks it, but the curiosity pricks at her.

She's not sure how much she'll be getting out of Delphine, if she'll in fact be getting anything at all.

"Um, no. No, of course not." Her response is fumbled and something about it rings false, though that might just be tonight's lunacy kicking her paranoia into overdrive. "Why do you ask?"

"I . . ." It's there, the perfect opportunity to spill everything. She can relinquish all the turmoil this mess has brought, give it to Cosima who, arguably, is more equipped to deal with it - Shay's certain she knows more about what's going on than her, at any rate. She can wash her hands of Delphine and Cosima both, return to the life she's worked so hard to remake. It's not like she's a stranger to walking away from things. She fancies she's even gotten good at it. "It's nothing. She was just here yesterday, acting strange. Well, stranger than usual."

It's not a lie. Delphine _was_ there, and she _was_ acting strange. Shay didn't pick up on it at the time, too fearful and reproachful to focus on much else besides getting the woman off her doorstep. She was still recovering from a sleepless night thanks to her, after all; the effects of which she's beginning to feel more and more.

Now that she thinks about it, though, Delphine _was_ off. Well, as much as Shay can determine from what little she knows of her and what could qualify as her brand of 'off'. What she knows is that she's domineering and bitter but when she saw her earlier, she wasn't either of those things. She was just . . . sad. And defeated.

Mostly defeated.

She wonders now if Delphine knew, knew what was going to happen to her? Was this shooting not a random act but rather something calculated, expected even?

In that case, did Cosima also know what was coming?

No. Shay doesn't think the woman would be on the phone to her right now if that was the case. She would be out hunting Delphine, she may even have been in the parking lot with her when the shooting happened. Maybe instead of one body, she would have found two, and the blood on her hands would have multiplied.

Cosima's form, pale and limp looms before her, features slack in death as blood congeals over her heart. Her glasses lie in pieces on the ground.

A shattered breath escapes her.

"Are you OK?" There's a sliver of alarm in her voice, understandable considering what happened the last time Delphine paid her a visit.

Her concern is genuine. Of course, it is. Whatever might have happened, whatever may or may not exist between them, Shay doesn't doubt that Cosima cares for her. She strikes her as the kind of person who cares for everyone she meets, at least in some small way.

She has a big heart. That's never been in question.

Shay's just not sure how much space she takes up in it.

"Yeah, she didn't . . . _do_ anything." She shakes her head, paces back and forth before the mirror. Her reflection catches her, casts a ghastly vision of red, and she has to turn her back. "I don't know, I thought maybe she was scared. But it's nothing."

She wants to tell her, she really does. And not just because she hopes Cosima can shed some light on the situation. It's not right to keep her in the dark, to keep such a big secret that so obviously impacts her.

But it's not her secret to tell, not really. Delphine was adamant, desperate, that Cosima not find out. Perhaps the reason is an emotional one, or maybe it's due to something more logistical, something tied up in the reason Delphine was shot in the first place. Maybe telling Cosima could actually endanger her.

Shay just doesn't know. She doesn't know enough to make the call.

"Um, OK." Cosima doesn't sound convinced, and she recognizes that all she's achieved from this line of questioning is to worry her. _Well done_.

"Listen, I'm going to try and get some sleep."

"Right, yeah. Of course."

Shay hesitates, thumb hovering over the end call button. "Take care of yourself, Cosima."

There's a pause as the other woman senses the words for what they are - a goodbye - and clears her throat.

"Yeah. Yeah, you too."

Shay hangs up first.

…

" _So uh, like, what is this?" Cosima ducks her head at the question, cheeks coloring slightly as she traces a finger along Shay's bare spine. The blonde can't help a shiver at the touch but if anyone asks it's totally from the cold. Naked, blankets strewn on the floor? Totally the cold. The fingers stop just as they're drawing enticingly lower and she nearly pouts._

 _Cosima winces slightly in self-recrimination, though Shay assumes it_ _'s from her words and not her deplorable teasing. "Damn, sorry. Not usually this awkward."_

 _She smirks, remembering their first date._ _"Not sure I believe that."_

" _Oh no, totally suave. Scout's honor." A hand raises in pledge and Shay has to bite back a laugh, cheeks hurting at the effort of containing her smile._

" _Oh really? How suave are we talking? I mean, is this Clark Gable_ _standards_ _or . . .?_ _" She trails off at the adorable look of confusion on on the brunette's face._

" _I have no idea who that is."_

"' _Gone with the Wind'." Her mouth drops open in offense at the blank look that greets her. "'It happened One Night'? 'Misfits'?_ Seriously _?_ _"_

 _Cosima shakes her head._ _"Yeah, I don't think any of those were made this century."_

" _You, my dear, are uncultured." She softens the words with a kiss to her shoulder though, smirking when a shiver arises beneath her lips. "You know I'm going to have to make you watch 'Gone with the Wind' now, right? I spent half my childhood in love with Rhett Butler, constantly fantasized about running off with him and Scarlett."_

 _Amusement danced in Cosima_ _'s eyes. "Both of them?"_

" _Hell yes. To this day, they remain the great unrequited loves of my life." She gazes off into the distance, pretending to be caught up in the imaginings of their romantic union, until a light smack to her side pulls her back._

" _Hey, do I need to leave you three alone?"_

 _Shay masters an innocent blink._ _"Jealous?"_

" _I think I'll have to see this movie before I can decide whether there's anything to be jealous of. For all I know, Rhett's an old drunk with a beer belly and Scarlett's last century's version of the crazy cat lady."_

 _She gasps._ _"Blasphemy."_

 _Cosima rolls her eyes and grumbles looking away but she can see a grin pulling at her lips. Shay fights back her own, she might be enjoying this conversation a little too much._

" _So I guess I can agree to seeing this 'Gone with the Wind', but only if you watch an episode of 'Star Trek' with me."_

" _I suppose I can be amenable to that," she murmurs, giving in to the call of Cosima's flesh once more. Another kiss. Another shiver. "As for this so called suaveness, I think I'll have to see it to believe it."_

" _Just you wait. I'll be charming the pants off you in no time, Missy."_

 _Shay trails a finger around the edge of Cosima_ _'s breast, tracing her way inwards, closer and closer. She muffles a grin against her neck as this elicits the biggest shiver yet. Definitely enjoying herself too much. "Hmm, a bit late for that, don't you think?" she asks, drawing attention to their far from modest states._ No pants to charm here _ **.**_

" _See? It worked. Told you I was suave." Cosima grins and she has to kiss the smugness off her face. Can't risk the wind changing and it staying that way. It's a truly altruistic move on her part._

" _I think you're confusing who seduced who here." Kiss._

" _Oh is that what happened?" There's a twinkle in her eye that fills Shay's chest with warmth. "I mean, I had my suspicions, what with the massage and all . . ."_

 _Shay plasters on an innocent expression._ _"You were tense. I was helping."_

" _Mmhm." She's completely unconvinced and the blonde rolls her eyes, giving up the ruse. She hasn't forgotten what started this, either._

" _Whatever you want."_

" _What?" Cosima pulls back, confused._

" _The answer to your question." She keeps her voice deceptively nonchalant, expression gentle, reassuring. "We can be whatever you want, whatever you're comfortable with."_

 _Cosima bites her lip._ _"And what if . . ._ this _is what I_ _'m comfortable with?" She glances down at the two of them, naked, entwined, utterly at ease. "Just this. At least for now."_

" _Then it's what you're comfortable with," she says easily. When Cosima raises a doubtful eyebrow, she shrugs. "We just met, Cosima, I have no expectations."_

" _Yeah?" Shay smiles at her tone, the beginnings of hope there._

" _Yeah. I do have one rule, though." She waits, watching as Cosima sits up a little straighter, ensuring she has her attention. "Respect. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, I want us to respect each other." She hesitates. "I'm not here to be used, Cosima, and I have no intention of doing that to you, either. Serious or not, let's stay open about our intentions towards each other, OK?"_

" _Yeah, of course." She nods quickly and there's something like relief in her eyes, like she was expecting something else, something more._

 _Shay continues._ _"Honesty, it's important to me. If something happens at work with Delphine and you want to come over here to forget? That's OK, I know how that goes."_

 _She_ _'s used her own share of people to forget, to feel better, and she doesn't want to be on the other end of that. Nor does she want Cosima to have to deal with any guilt after the fact._

 _But it_ _'s harder to use someone who's offering._

" _But I need to know. I need to know that that's what's happening."_

 _As long as she knows what the situation is, where they both stand, then Shay has no problem with employing sex as a tool to make Cosima feel better. It_ _'s not as though Shay gets nothing out of it. On the contrary, she gets to have - let's be honest here - some pretty awesome, mindblowing sex, and she gets to have it with someone whose company she really enjoys. It works out well for both of them._

 _Though in some ways it is unfortunate. She actually likes Cosima, they click, and if circumstances were different she could see this evolving into something more, a real relationship even. But she has enough sense to realize that the likelihood of her being anything more than a rebound for Cosima is relatively small. The woman wears her heart on her sleeve, and right now it_ _'s riddled with pain and anger, not to mention still the property of one Dr. Delphine (that last part can be seen from a mile away)._

" _OK?" Shay finishes._

 _Cosima contemplates her for a moment,_ _warmth_ _seeping into her expression._ _"Yeah. Yeah, OK. Scout's honor." the promise is softer this time, earnest, and the kiss that Shay has to lean forward to meet is gentle, tender. She can taste the gratefulness, the honesty on her lips and her heart flutters at the contact._ OK. Definitely OK _ **.**_ _Heat fills her from the inside out, pulsing, consuming and as Cosima pulls her closer, she fails to keep back a moan._

 _She wonders how hard it_ _'ll be to keep her emotions in check when she has this to contend with. She's finding it increasingly hard to give a damn, though, especially when Cosima's hands return to the path they abandoned earlier. Not giving a damn never felt so good._

…

She's only taken one foot outside the bathroom when Neal pounces. By now, he has to be chaffing at the bit for information, for _anything_ that could make sense of this bizarre surgical situation he's been talked into. She scans her mind for any possible answers that could come near satisfying him, comes up blank. She doesn't know a whole lot to begin with herself,so what exactly is she supposed to give him?

"So, who's this Cosima?"

OK, not what she was expecting. Somehow, she thought that, on the list of urgent things to discuss, her dating life rated pretty low. "Really? That's the first thing you bring up?"

He crosses his arms, utterly unapologetic. "I thought I'd start easy, work my way up to gunfights and DIY surgeries. Besides, the mention of her earlier seemed to strike a nerve."

That's putting it mildly.

She considers him carefully before answering.

From the outside, they look like an odd choice for friends. He's more than a decade older than her, with bristly salt and pepper hair that's beginning to fall out in clumps (much to his dismay), and the spectacles on his face need a good clean. They work in the same hospital, he in the emergency department, and she in rehab. They never mix except for the occasional lunch or coffee break. He's grouchy, she's sunny, he's high strung, she's mellow; the one personality trait they do have in common is a sense of humor. When they first met, though, they just clicked, and now he's one of her closest friends.

On this, she can be open with him.

Shay mirrors the crossing of his arms, though her stance is more defensive, bordering on self-conscious. "She's . . . an ex." Somehow, saying it breeds an edge of finality. There's no more wrestling over the fact, in letting it pass her lips she knows it to be true.

She was probably foolish to think there was any chance of reconciliation to begin with. Not even two weeks into 'dating' Cosima and her life's gone to hell in a basket case. What exactly was she hoping to salvage from that? This is supposed to be the easy part, the beginning, where every thing's still fresh and exciting. It's later on that things are meant to become complicated and, well, she's not sure she can do more complicated than this.

It's her own fault, really. She knew her time with Cosima would probably be brief going in, rebounds don't usually last after all. And yet she allowed herself to care too much. _Fantastic._

"Hmm."

His thoughtful expression raises alarms. "What?"

"It's just, in the entire time I've known you, I'm not sure you've ever had a relationship serious enough that you'd ever consider someone an _ex_."

He's not wrong. In fact, it might even be a stretch to call what she does relationships. They're more like flings, affairs. Not one night stands, exactly. That's not her style. Many of her hookups up are friends she has arrangements with, or else acquaintances she's formed an attachment with. She needs to know a person, to feel them out first in order to take them to bed. But she likes sex. And she likes people. She likes forming _connections_ with people. But that's where things usually end.

Not that what she had with Cosima could really be called a relationship, either. They were barely together more than a week and it was . . . a strange set of circumstances. She just, well she felt _more_ for her. And more isn't something she's felt in a long time.

Companionship, lust, those are things she's used to.

With Cosima there were both those things. But there was also-

Well, it doesn't matter now.

"It's . . . complicated." That's actually the simplest way to put it, ironically enough.

Unaware that she's trying to save him a headache, Neal looks less than satisfied with her response. He lets it go, though. Like her, he understands the need for privacy. "It always is. And this Delphine?"

Where to start? "Even more complicated. She's Cosima's ex."

He blinks, all lightheartedness disappearing from his expression. She did say complicated. "Now I'm worried."

"You weren't before?"

"About whether or not I was going to be arrested for performing an illegal surgery? Of course." Again, that swirling of guilt in the pit of her stomach. Just what has she dragged him into? "About you? I was cautiously apprehensive. I figured she was some stranger you came across on the street, and you were just playing the good Samaritan. But this? What the hell, Shay? Now I'm worried." He watches her closely, searching, and she tries to force some semblance of energy into her features, to erase all exhaustion and anxiety.

"I'm fine. Really." He scoffs. " _Really_.I know this all sounds . . . crazy, but I've got it under control."

He shakes his head. "You're a terrible liar."

She tries not to think about how she used to be rather good at it, once upon a time, and changes the subject. "Speaking of liars, what was that back there?"

"What was what?"

"About your wife? Sabine's French, not German." Her tone struggles for teasing, falling slightly flat. Nonetheless, he allows the diversion and even attempts a look of innocence.

"Don't give me that look, I failed geography. Besides, I thought it would help put her at ease. And we did meet in Paris."

"Paris, _Texas_."

"Same thing." She shakes her head at him, unable to be but vaguely amused. He continues before she can bother to protest the point. "I think it was all a wasted effort, though. I got the sense she didn't like France very much."

There _had_ been an edge in Delphine's voice when Shay suggested traveling back to France. But that's the least on her list of worries at the moment, in fact it doesn't even make the list.

"Well, thankyou. Not for lying," she adds when he looks a little too smug. "But for doing this. For coming when I called."

"It's why you have my number," he reminds her. "Though when I gave it to you, I didn't think this was the kind of thing you'd be calling on me for help with."

"That makes two of us." She sighs, uncrossing her arms. "Still, thankyou. You didn't have to."

He concedes that with a nod. Eyeing her closely, he purses his lips, unimpressed. "You look terrible."

She doesn't doubt it. "It's . . . been a long day."

That's an understatement. Was it really only that afternoon Cosima was knocking on her door trying to smooth things over?

He grunts, deciding not to push for now. She's not sure how long she can rely upon that to last. He knows her too well, all her dark hidden corners, to not see right through her.

"How's the patient?" She's neglected to ask, knowing they wouldn't be discussing trivial things like Cosima and Paris if she took a turn for the worse. She also wanted to savor what little time remained to her, outside the hell she ducked into the bathroom to escape from.

He follows her gaze to Delphine, frowning. "Hasn't come round yet, probably be a while until she does - her body needs time to recover from all it's been through. Pulse oximeter's still too low to take her off oxygen but it's rising, so give it a few more minutes and we'll see. Blood pressure is also low, but not dangerous. That's going to be a wait and see while watching carefully one." He turns back to her, expression grim. "Honestly, she's lucky to be alive."

She purses her lips. "I know."

"Speaking of the patient, I found, uh, _this_ in her coat."

Her eyes widen at the appearance of a gun, which he carefully retrieves from the bag at his feet. Dangling it between his thumb and forefinger, he holds it away from himself like a deadly contagion, mouth wrinkling in no small level of disgust.

Like her, he's a pacifist.

"Jesus." Automatically, she grabs for it, Neal being all too eager to relinquish all ownership.

Unlike her, he's never held a gun before.

She was trained on an M16 rifle and an M9 handgun, so she knows her way around both types. Delphine's is a handgun but it's not a make she's familiar with, a Glock maybe? Still, the process can't be too different. She presses the release, unloading the magazine and checking it over.

There are nine cartridges and one of them is missing a bullet. She tries not to think about what that means.

"Do the French have a a mafia?" he ponders aloud, to which she can only shrug.

It sounds crazy but . . .

Well, she's not so sure there's an explanation here that _won_ _'t_ sound crazy.

What kind of science involves guns and attempted assassinations? Not to mention breaking into apartments and doing background checks on an employee's girlfriend? She'll be the first to admit she got a D in all her science courses barring biology but she's fairly certain none of this was ever mentioned. Maybe they really are dealing with black holes (in ways they're not supposed to), or aliens, or time time travel, or ninja turtles. The kind of things the government might not want the public to find out about. Though that's a little too conspiracy theorist for her.

So maybe a meth lab then. A super secret, high security meth lab. In which case, she really needs to introduce Cosima to _Breaking Bad,_ educate her on all the ways that will _not_ end well.

 _Jesus._ Delphine's not the only one who's going to need a holiday after all this.

Carefully, she unpacks the bullets, shoving them into her pocket to deal with later - the last thing they need are any accidents. She reloads the magazine and waits for it to click into place. _You, my dear, are going in the safe._

"You OK?"

The question catches her off guard. It shouldn't. "Yeah."

"You're shaking."

She forgot. The shaking's persisted for so long now, it seems to have become a part of her. It's almost like she's an addict in the beginning stages of withdrawal, right before the pain sets in; the entire body nothing but a coil of agonized nerves, screaming for attention.

"It's the blood loss." She can't fool him, but she tries anyway, and thankfully he doesn't press, just squeezes her shoulder and turns away. "You should eat something. Before you faint," he advises, heading over to the bed to continue his packing. He's already made a start, she can see. The surgical supplies have gone away and so has his stethoscope. She's about to follow up on his orders, knowing it will help with at least some of the trembling, when she spies him reaching for the remains of the transfusion kit.

"Neal-"

"Don't even start," he interrupts without sparring her a glance. "You know the waiting time between donations."

It takes 12 to 16 weeks in order for iron levels to be restored. She _knows_ but . . .

Delphine needs blood. "I can handle it." It's not false bravado, she really can. She's handled worse. Her iron levels will drop and she'll feel like shit for a while, but it won't kill her. The lack of blood _might_ kill Delphine, though.

Neal doesn't budge. "I'll see if I can swipe something from work. No promises."

She supposes she can't expect anything else. In the end, his priority is her, not some stranger who's probably tied up in criminal activity.

She rakes a hand through her hair, further demolishing the bun that's become such a mess it barely qualifies as one anymore. Though she wants to fight him on it, she's too tired to do anything but surrender. Reluctantly, she gives a nod. "What if it's not enough? What I gave her."

"Then I hope you've worked out your story for the police because I draw the line at helping you hide a body."

"Jerk." Her lips pull up at the edges though.

She spends the next 10 minutes helping him pack, chewing halfheartedly at a sandwich he sent her off to make before starting. It's sardines and tomato sauce, hardly her most nutritious choice, but it's food and it'll suffice. Honestly, if she didn't need to eat, she wouldn't have bothered. Each bite sends down another stone to reside in the pit of her stomach, creating an uncomfortable weight that refuses to depart. Beyond that, it irritates the already present nausea. On more than one occasion she has to cover her mouth, suppressing the mild urge to vomit.

It doesn't take them long to finish. There's not much he's taking back with him. The blood pressure monitor and oxygen cylinder are staying behind for as long as Delphine still needs them. It's expected he'll collect them in a few days. Sooner if she doesn't-

Well, if she doesn't survive that long.

Her first aid kit has also been added too: odds and ends she didn't have on hand, antibiotics, some extra bandages since she'll be doing a lot of redressing. There's a suture kit as well, for when it comes time to close up the entry and exit wound, or in case the incision reopens. She scans the items on the couch, searching through what he's left her.

There's one glaring absentee.

"Where's the morphine?" Her mouth clamps shut, shame setting in. She knows why there's no morphine. "Sorry," she exhales. "I just . . . tylenol won't be enough for the pain when she wakes up." If. _If_ she wakes up.

But she's already asked so much of him and this, this she can't ask.

Neal inclines his head in acknowledgment of her apology, and her fears. "She's alive. She'll cope." The response is blunt, lacking true sympathy. If there exists some level of resentment for the woman who dragged him out of his few precious hours of sleep, she's not going to judge. He probably thinks they're accessories in a crime now - who but a criminal would be so insistent on avoiding the hospital?

It's something she's thought about herself, and another source of guilt. Maybe it was the wrong thing, bringing him into this. But Delphine needed medical care, the kind Shay can't provide and . . . she couldn't just let her _die_.

"She'll suffer." And Shay will have to watch, unable to do anything; useless, helpless.

Balling her hands at the thought, she knocks them against her thighs in the beginnings of a rhythm; an attempt to get some of the energy out. It's there inside her, trapped, tense, begging for a release. It demands an outlet, a distraction, something to soothe the strain of her muscles and the tight cavity of her chest. She can feel it like a band, constricting around her racing heart, about to-

 _Од_ _и_ _н, два, три . . ._

"Give me a number."

The voice startles her, yanking her back to the present and she struggles to comprehend. Neal's watching her closely, eyes ticking between the beat of her fists and the quiver of her lips. Out of everyone she knows, he's the most familiar with the signs. Not even Styles understands her like this.

"What?"

Normally it's a comfort. Today it's more of a hindrance, an obstacle in convincing them both of just how fine she is.

"Your number between one and 10. Give it to me." His voice is firm, brooking no argument so she knows not to try.

Her fists unwrap and she forces her shoulders to sag, to pretend. The question is familiar, little more than routine by now. "6 . . ." He crosses his arms, unbelieving, and she amends. "8."

He frowns and although it was an answer he was obviously expecting, he looks worried. "I can stay."

 _Please._

But she shakes her head. "No, I'll be OK." It's the truth. This isn't the worst she's been, by far. Not to mention, she has skills now that she didn't back then. She's a lot better at this, coping. She no longer needs someone to hold her hand at every hurdle. "Besides, your next shift starts in," she checks her watch, eyebrows shooting up at the time. She'll be having breakfast in less than four hours. "45 minutes."

"I can call in sick."

" _Go_." She masters her most convincing smile, squeezes his elbow reassuringly. "I'll be fine."

He watches her carefully. There's conflict between her words and what he sees right in front of him, what he _knows,_ but he can't put his life on hold for her; she doesn't want him too. Nor can he force his presence on her when she doesn't want it. Boundaries, it's one of key aspects of their relationship. "Fine. But if that number reaches 9, you call me."

A nod. "I promise." This time she's not lying.

She's worked too hard to get to where she is now, to see it all fall away.

"If I don't make it back to pick up the stuff beforehand, I'll see you at the meeting on Friday," he says as she's showing him out the door. He's run through a list of the supplies he's left for her once more, told her the things to watch out for, and when to take the stitches out. Most of it is stuff she knows but the refresher is nice, even comforting. "If she takes a turn for the worse, my phone will be on. Though I'm not sure there's much I'll be able to do at this point." He lets out a breath, sparing one last glance at Delphine's resting form. They took her off the oxygen just before and now she breathes evenly, in out, in out, all of her own volition. That's comforting too. "It's on her now."

Her gaze follows his, hoping that the woman, who appears so frail now, has some hidden reserve of strength left in her. The surgery was a success, she has that in her favor, but if she's going to survive, she's going to have to _fight_.

Luckily, Delphine's never struck her as the type to take things lying down.

Shay smiles, reaching up on tiptoes to give Neal a peck on the cheek, willfully ignoring the fact that he has to bend to allow the action. "Give Sabine and the boys a hug from me. And let her know I won't be able to make it to Yoga tomorrow."

Neal grumbles but acquiesces. "You know she'll be texting you all week, worrying her head off."

She knows. Her husband visiting her this late at night, or early morning, will be a dead give away that some thing's wrong. Sabine knows what those kind of visits usually mean. Though this time, her assumption would be wrong. "Tell her I'm fine."

"If you were fine, you wouldn't have called me."

True. "Tell her . . . I'm working on it. I just need some time."

He grunts his disapproval but nods, walking out into the hallway. When he leaves, he doesn't look back. One look at her and all his willpower to leave would probably evaporate, she suspects. Frowning, she leans her head against the side of the door, watching the retreat of his figure, and fighting the urge to call him back.

Never again is she doing online dating. That high five girl was a dream compared to this.

...

 **A/N: Thankyou for reading! Let me know what you think? Anything you didn't like? Also, I made a shaysima/cophine video if anyone's interested** **watch?v=fDWcjR0XNIs**


	5. Drown

**A/N: As always, your reviews are terrific and they made me feel a lot better after last chapter. So thankyou, thankyou, thankyou.**

 **T/W: Reference to attempted suicide**

 **.**

 _(_ _ **Drown, v:**_

 _1\. To kill by submerging and suffocating in water or another liquid_

 _2\. to destroy or get rid of by, or as if by, immersion_

 _3\. to flood or inundate; To deaden one's awareness of; blot out_

 _4._ _To muffle or mask (a sound) by a louder sound)_

 _(_ _ **Comfort, n:**_

 _1\. a state of ease or well-being_

 _2\. relief from affliction, grief, etc_

 _3\. a person, thing, or event that brings solace or ease)_

…

In the weeks after Merryleg's accident, Shay never left her grandparents' property. She spent her days and nights camped out in the stables, curled in the hay with her best friend (later she was sprung and carried inside, tucked away in bed with an exasperated kiss goodnight). One of the wounds on his right hindquarters had become infected, the vet declaring the limb might be lost, cut off, amputated. She was only eight but she knew what that meant. Her grandfather did, too.

'Sometimes a suffering is so great, the only thing to do, the only kindness, it to let them go. Let them sleep.' He told her one day after taking her aside. His voice was gruff, lacking emotion, but his eyes held it all for her and when she cried, his arms were firm.

He couldn't make her understand, not really. At that point in her life, she had never encountered a suffering so great that death could be a mercy.

…

Shay's contemplating a much needed shower when a buzzing sound to her left makes her jump. She whips around, spotting Delphine's handbag abandoned on the floor and makes her way over. In one careless motion she upturns it, tipping everything out onto the couch and stepping back to consider the fallen: lipstick, concealer, a plastic sleeve, a prescription packet and cell phone. She picks up the vibrating phone.

Cosima.

Of course. Of course it's Cosima. What was she expecting when she brought up Delphine to her?

There are four missed calls and her thumb hovers over the answer button, conflicted. Cosima's clearly worried, thanks to her (yet further evidence that she knows far more than she's saying). It would be cruel to leave that worry to fester.

 _Answer it._

Shay bites down on her bottom lip, thumb twitching.

She waits too long, and the phone stops vibrating, falling into a dead quiet. If she knew Delphine's pass code she could send off a text to Cosima, pretending to be Delphine. Type out some sort of assurance to put the other woman at ease.

But she doesn't.

Just give it some time.

She'll wait until Delphine wakes up, leave it to her to decide. At the end of the day, it's her decision - and none of Shay's business. If it looks like she's not _going_ to wake up . . .

Then she'll call Cosima. And hope it's not too late.

Shay discards the phone back onto the couch, eyes finding the packet of pills nearby. Curiosity makes her reach out, turn it over in her hands for inspection. It's an invasion of privacy but she's beyond caring, and she needs to know if the woman's on anything that could interfere with her recovery.

She recognizes the label immediately. Xanax. She chokes on a disbelieving laugh. Today is not her day.

She's well familiar with the title. It's the same brand her psychiatrist put her on at the very beginning, and it helped with her flashbacks and panic attacks. It was so useful because it because of its quick acting ability, and turned out to be a lifesaver on more than one occasion. Short term use only, though.

Shaking her head, she places the pack back down, hand lingering a moment too long. _Don_ _'t_. She chucks it back in the bag with a fair bit more aggression than necessary, and begins the process of packing away everything else. The abandoned plastic sleeve catches her attention, a glint of silver flashing in the light. Frowning, she picks it up, holding it to the lamp to allow a better look.

Her first thought is that it's a maggot which, really, the things scientists keep in their handbags. Delphine couldn't just tote tampons like the rest of them? But then it jerks and she startles. What the-?

Shay's seen the 'X-Files', she knows what a parasitic alien looks like, and is half tempted to set the sleeve on fire. She just bought a new pack of matches. She could do it.

 _Aliens?_ Now, she's lost her mind. Officially.

It's the lack of sleep. Has to be.

Compromising, she stows the sleeve back in Delphine's bag, hasty to be a rid of it.

But not before adding it to the list of 'Things We Need to Talk About'.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she gets up to check on Delphine.

. . .

 _Maman is scrubbing shampoo into her hair, sharp nails catching on skin and earning wince after wince._ _"_ **Descends.** _" Delphine gasps a breath, cheeks puffing out, and sinks beneath the water. Eyes scrunched shut, she relaxes to nimble fingers running over her scalp, rinsing through her hair. Is there a tenderness there? She can almost grasp it, in the lingering of a touch, and the cautious distance of nail from vulnerable lids. When she is allowed up, a hand cups her brow, protects her opening eyes from the cascade of sullied water. She sighs, the heat of it against her skin . . ._

 _Then it retracts and the warmth, the comfort, disappears._

 _She wants to go back under, just to find it again. If only for a moment more._

. . .

Furious, she chucks the sponge into the bucket of water, flinching at the spray of pink water that rises up. It's useless. She's been kneeling on the floor for the past thirty minutes, scrubbing away at the blood stained carpet. She realized five minutes in that her efforts were in vain and all she's achieved since is to diffuse the stain, spread its reach. At least the carpet's purple and not white.

She thought to keep it up simply because it gave her something to take her frustrations out on but her knuckles have started to crack and one of her palms has carpet burn. Not to mention, her nails are a lost cause.

Defeated, she climbs to her feet, heaving a sigh at the bucket's muddied water. Better tip that out. She picks it up, stumbling slightly under the weight and heads over to the kitchen sink. It takes some effort to heave it up onto the counter - she may have over filled it - and with a grunt she tips it over, watching as it pours out in a cascade. Light crimson swirls around the surface of the sink, twisting, bubbling; a whirlpool of blood.

She has to get it off, has to get it all off. He's in her hair, under her nails, now he's going down the pipes. She's washing him down the drain. Fuck, how can she-

Shay grips the counter, nearly collapsing under the weight of memory.

 _What are you doing?_

She stands there for a moment, breathing heavily before looking down at herself. There are patches of blood on her jumper, soggy from sponge water and bleeding throughout the material. Swearing, she rips it over her head and throws it to the floor. Her bra is no better and for some time she fumbles with the clasp at the back, wet fingers slipping and catching. When it finally unlocks, she snatches the jumper off the floor and shoves both it and the bra into the wastebasket. For a second, all she can do is stare at them, finding her breath as they mock her amongst the remains of all the night's soiled material.

How does she throw it out? And can she just put them in the bin? It's blood, only blood. But it's his blood. She's throwing his remains away like rubbish. _His remains_. Oh god-

Twisting her hands, she turns in a circle, searching for something to do. Even with the clothes gone, she can still see the blood, still hear. . .

She shakes her head, turns back around.

 _She stuffs the bandages inside the gaping wound, packing it up, up, up. But still the blood comes. It_ _'s crept under her sleeves now, staining her flushed skin. Later, she'll scrub at it for hours, seeking to erase every phantom speck._

 _Out, spot, out!_

Scrambling for a pack of matches, she forces it open, hands fumbling as she works to retrieve one. Her fingers slip, the box is knocked clean and a shower of sticks rain down upon the floor. Hastily, she picks one up and strikes it against the side of the box.

A flame appears before her eyes, bright and terrible. She stares at it too long, breath shallow as the fire crawls down the stick. It burns her finger and she startles.

Falling, falling, falling . . .

It falls to the ground, blackened, lifeless.

Shaking her head at her stupidity, Shay picks up another. This time when she lights it, she doesn't hesitate. Dropping it in the bin, she watches the small flame catch on to the collar of her jumper. It takes it's time, dancing there and failing to move on, to engulf.

 _She_ _'s exhausted, back aching and arms straining under the effort as she continues to pound. Hands splayed across the blood spattered chest, she presses down, up, down. Please. Up, down, up, down. Come on. Up-_

She waits, each minute passing by as she tries to steady her breath, and the fire continues its slow advance, obliterating all in its path.

 _She can do this_

 _Down-_

" _Davydov."_

 _This can_ _'t-_

 _Up-_

" _Davydov."_

 _Down-_

" _Shay!"_

She jerks, coming to in time to see the last licks of fire dwindle down into a pile of ash. Raking a hand through her hair, she struggles to realign herself. Digging her toes into the carpet, she feels out the texture of the fibers, the press of them against her skin. She wriggles them a little, traces the sensation of her muscles to her ankles, up her legs.

A muscle in her thigh twitches and she locks on to it, counts her breaths.

 _Come on, Davydov, you can handle this. You were a seven on New Year_ _'s._

Damn teens and their fireworks. She ended up camping out at Neal's and Sabine's, spent three hours in a rocking chair with their ten month old son. It had calmed her, the steady, rhythmic motion, back and forth back and forth; the weight of him in her arms, grounding her; the small puff of his chest, in and out, in and out; listening to the reassuring sounds of his breaths.

Of course, she's a minus a baby and rocking chair both right now, but she can manage.

She always does.

. . .

 _She is ten years old and her parents are fighting over her father_ _'s latest affair. She can hear them down the hall, each lash of their tongues carrying back to her. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she buries her head and pretends not to listen, watches the water lap around her balled frame. When this doesn't work, when the violence rises, and her ears start to bleed, she unwraps herself and sinks beneath the bath water._

 _The relief is immediate. Their anger fades out._

 _. . ._

Delphine is still unconscious when she checks on her, still unresponsive. But her blood pressure is rising, slowly but surely, and her oxygen saturation remains satisfactory. It's optimistic, considering the state Shay found her in and all that's happened since. Most importantly, she's not dead, a definite win by any standards.

She's not at rest, though either. Her face is crumpled in vague distress, the effects of the anesthetic beginning to wear off no doubt. In the field, they didn't always have access to pain medication. Shay's borne witness to many soldiers, and some civilians, in the throes of agony. It's a state of abject helplessness that she's never wanted to relive. There were these times, and even now they fill her with shame, when their death was almost a relief.

 _Not almost._

Shay tries not to think about that now, running a hand down the side of Delphine's face in an attempt to soothe her. There are smears of blood on her forehead and around her mouth, the last left over from when she was coughing it up. For this reason, Shay's brought along a bowl of lukewarm water and some of her softest hand towels, one of which she dips into its depths now.

She's already washed herself. Wary of retreating into the bathroom for any long length of time, she instead poured herself a bath - because of its location, it was possible to still keep a watchful eye on Delphine. There was some apprehension to begin with, after stripping off. Standing in front of the tub, the memory of Delphine seated there, razor in hand, was all too fresh. How calmly she threatened her, appearing to value Shay's life no more than she would a gnat. Maybe that was true. Maybe she would have squashed her as easily as a bug, if given the chance. Shay didn't know, didn't truly want to know either.

But it was foolish to let the memory over rule her, especially to the point where she couldn't even use her own bath. Gritting her teeth, she stepped in, allowing the shallow but hot waters to submerge her lower body, soothe it.

Though, when the blood seeped off her skin and painted the transparent ocean around her a muddy red, she had to look away, count her breaths. She didn't look back, not even to pull the plug upon getting out.

The blood was gone, that was all she needed to know.

Now she sits beside Delphine, hair wet and curling, dripping water onto the shoulders of her blue robe. She'll straighten it later, if she can be bothered, but for now she lets it sit, unassailed. It'll do it some good, anyway, to give it a break from the burning metal. Though it'll be nothing but frizz tomorrow morning if she doesn't at least put some product in it and-

She smiles to herself. Unbelievable. Really? She's worrying about her hair?

"I suppose it's a nice change of pace, at least."

Wringing out the excess water, she raises it to Delphine's face, dabbing gently at the stains there. The doctor's brows wrinkle slightly at the disturbance but otherwise she remains unresponsive. Carefully, Shay continues her process of cleaning away the crime.

Right now, it's all she can do.

. . .

 _She_ _'s fourteen and shivering, hair plastered down the exposed ridges of her spine as she huddles in the center of the tub. It has been almost an hour since her roommate and her friends invaded the small bathroom; since she watched, helpless in her porcelain prison, as they snatched up her towel and clothes and sprinted back out the door, visages cracked in smirks._

 _She can hear their giggles through the door now, the creak of bedsprings and vicious conversation._

 _The water has long since grown cold but she is too scared to get out, to run to the bedroom soaking and nude in search of clothes. What will they think of her? The breasts so small, non existent next to their own; the swathe of hair down her calves that she never shaves; and that space between her legs none but her parents have seen? They will laugh and they will scorn and-_

 _The palpitations in her chest consume her, all rational thought escaping as she fears that the desperate organ might break apart. She curls further into herself and sinks beneath the water in search of the familiar silence. It comes, dampening their voices to a dull murmur that thuds in ripples around her._

 _When she cries, her tears bleed into the water, unseen._

. . .

Pulling back the covers, Shay inspects the leftover ruin of the French woman's upper body. It's a mess of bandages and congealed blood now, her blouse cut away for surgery (in shreds, crumpled in amongst blood soaked bandages and clothes at the bottom of Shay's bin - all of it ash now). Her bra, whilst not completely ruined, also met the same fate and, knowing how expensive they can be, she feels almost guilty about the fact. It looked good quality too.

Of course, all of Delphine's clothes looked like they cost more than her couch, before they got tangled up in a crime scene.

The black gloves - beautiful leather, soft to the touch - Shay removed the first time Delphine fell unconscious in search of easier access to her pulse. Much like her shirt, they're blood covered but it's not nearly as noticeable due to the color. Hoping that they might be saved, she neglected to toss them in the bin and instead added them to her laundry basket.

The coat, too, survived. Unbuttoned for surgery, it was left on for the sake of warmth. She can see now that the blood has even managed to blend into the material in some places.

Inspecting the bandages for signs of bleeding through, she's satisfied to find them still relatively clean. They'll have to be changed tomorrow or, rather, later today but for now they're alright to leave on. It's the wounds left behind by the bullet that Shay's most concerned with. They're the most likely to get infected. They could also start bleeding again, seeing as they haven't yet been sutured.

In a few days time, after any contaminants or infections have had a chance to seep out, she'll apply stitches. For now, the gauze will do fine.

Still, she'll be keeping a close eye on them.

For now, she occupies herself with cleaning the areas around the bandages, rubbing away at the dried blood. It's grown stubborn, sticking to Delphine's skin, but Shay is determined. She is also gentle, careful not to apply the cloth too roughly, to grate away at the tender flesh as she might if it was her own. It takes more time but she has plenty of that and it directs her thoughts in a way that keeps her heart steady and her breath even. Every now and again her attention slips, those thoughts stray and her palms grow sweaty until she manages to fight her way back.

When she's finished, she inspects Delphine's hands. Noticing the blood on her coat sleeve, she raises it to examine the arm beneath. Whilst the gloves protected the majority of her hands, there are smears of red that climb from her wrist up to her elbow. Shay sets to work on cleaning them away, gently rubbing at each individual stain with the cloth, coaxing them free.

She's working the underside of Delphine's wrist, blood and concealer coming away in equal measure, when she notices it.

' _You know, when I was at boarding school there was a girl I knew . . . very well.'_

A jagged line, no more than a faint discoloration and stretching an inch or so up her arm. Well faded, the scar is near invisible.

' _And she attempted suicide.'_

There is a smaller, misshapen twin on Delphine's other wrist too. Buried beneath concealer, it is even harder to detect, having healed far better than the other.

' _She slit her wrists in the bathtub._ _'_

She traces it for a moment, considering, before gently placing the limb back down and relinquishing her hold. She unrolls Delphine's sleeves, hiding the scars once more.

Upon finishing up, Shay notices the trembles that have taken hold of Delphine's body. She can't be cold, bundled up as she is, and with the heater on too, yet the shakes are irrefutable. Concerned, Shay places the back of her hand to Delphine's forehead, frowning at the hot flush against her skin. A thermometer reveals a fever of 102. It's mild, unlikely to be a problem but it makes her anxious.

She knows the early symptoms of infection and hopes this isn't it. Another cause could be a bad reaction to the blood which, well, that would be just her luck, wouldn't it? Something as rare as that, happening right now on top of everything else. If Delphine develops graph verses host, she's going to write a letter of complaint to the universe.

Loosening the blankets slightly to ensure that Delphine doesn't become to overly heated, she settles down on the bed beside her. Body and mind aching, she reclines back against the pillows, tries to relax. She won't sleep, this she already knows. But a rest, just a small one, might at least offer some relief.

She takes in a breath. Counts to three. Lets it out.

And repeats.

. . .

 _She_ _'s in the bath at Felix's, Cosima leaning back against her chest, soft skin flush against her own. They make a game of blowing bubbles into the air, seeing who can master the greatest distance. A cloud of froth lands on the brunette's nose and Delphine blows it away, replaces its presence with a kiss._

 _She_ _'s at the bottom of a bathtub, drowning in blood._

. . .

It's three in the morning, and she's halfway to stir crazy. She tried mediation, just to calm the racing of her mind and heart, but couldn't make herself focus. Once, she was so well practiced that she could do it no matter her level of distress, but she's grown lax in the past few months, careless. Things have been going so well, she neglected to make it a priority, forgot that it was still needed.

Disappearing into her back room - a small space, little larger than closet, that she keeps for storage, as well as her many shelves of books - she retrieves a well worn book off the smallest one. Her fifteen year old copy of 'The Importance of Being Earnest' is beginning to fall apart and the inside pages are marked with her handwriting and food stains. Not to mention, more than a few pages are torn, one passage missing completely. It was second hand to begin with and, although she takes good care of her books, this one has certainly seen better days.

She would never throw it out, though.

Leaving the room, she makes herself comfortable on the bed, arranging her pillows just so. Cracking open the book in her lap, she leans back against them and begins.

She's read it so many times, knows the story so well, that she no longer starts at the beginning, but rather thumbs through the pages to a spot at random.

She lands on Act III, and lets her self sink into Cecily and Gwendolen's rather absurd confrontation with Jack and Algernon.

…

It's six in the morning, the time she'd usually be getting up, and her eyes burn from exhaustion. She can't sleep, though. Every time her head hits the pillow, her thoughts race up and her heart speeds to match. She doesn't want to think about what she might see if she actually drifts off. For now, it's best just to read. And she's reluctant to sleep in case something goes wrong with Delphine. This way, at least, she can monitor her vital signs between paragraphs.

When Delphine stirs, she's at the begging of Act I, and Algernon is enjoying some wonderful cucumber sandwiches. The form beside her shifts, a mummer parting chapped lips and Shay startles from her book. Delphine's still unconscious, oblivious to her surroundings, but her brow is furrowed, mouth pinched. Her expression carries the distress that Shay feels.

Frowning, she sets the book down, marking her place. "Delphine?" Her voice cracks, her throat gone dry.

The woman doesn't respond, though her discontent remains obvious. Sighing, Shay takes her hand, rubbing the palm between both of her hers to generate warmth, comfort. She keeps a careful eye on Delphine's face as she begins to massage her fingers, noting how the knot in her brow slowly begins to ease.

Never underestimate the power of the human touch.

. . .

 _She_ _'s underwater, buried fifteen feet deep._

 _The distance to the surface is insurmountable, but she feels no urge to reach it. She floats, body numb but for a liquid warmth that pulses around her. The light streaming down through the water is weak, diluted and she allows it to calm her as she closes her eyes._

" _Delphine."_

 _A hand slips into hers. Cosima. She knows it even without looking. Knows the texture and the girth, the way it squeezes hers before toying with her fingers. Delphine would know her touch anywhere._

 _Where is she?_

"Cosima?"

Shay flinches in her position beside Delphine at the other woman's voice. She looks up from her book in vague hopes that the woman will be awake only to be disappointed.

Delphine is still very much unconscious, though her head has rolled slightly towards Shay. Face squinted, her lips move soundlessly in a tireless murmur, and she senses something lost there, something searching.

Squeezing the hand she's kept in hers, Shay sets down her book once more and leans forward. She pushes sweat soaked hair back from her pasty face, seeking to reassure. The actions are familiar to her. She can remember tense and adrenaline packed evacs to the hospital from the field, standing by a patient's side, unable to do anything more but offer this small comfort.

She never felt more helpless than in those moments, when all care she could give had already been deployed yet so much was still needed. The reminder of it it fills her mouth with a bitter taste and she swallows, trying to push it away.

 _You_ _'re not there, Davydov._

 _You_ _'re not there._

Sometimes she wishes she was, though. Sometimes it feels like coming home was the worst part. Coming home to nothing but the quiet and the memories. Back before she learnt to like the quiet again, it ate her up, devoured her.

To this thought she picks up her bock in her other hand, opening it and cradling it in her lap. Does the quiet eat at Delphine in the same way it does Shay? Does she even care?

A snort. Caring has never been the problem.

"I hope you like Oscar Wilde," she grumbles but squeezes the hand once more to soften the displeasure in her tone.

There is one thing she can do to help.

. . .

 _There_ _'s blood in the water now, and a sting in her wrists. It clouds the depths, fogging her view, cloaking her. And then Cosima's face appears, rippling above her. Delphine reaches but comes up empty, limbs falling back heavy as the mirage trickles away._

 _. . ._

She reads aloud, partly for Delphine, and partly for herself. It brings her out of her head, makes her focus on the syllables of each word, working them with her tongue and building a rhythm. It fills up the empty silence of the apartment and makes her feel like she's actually _doing_ something.

"'And now, dear Mr. Worthing, I will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow. I would merely beg you not to be too much bowed down by grief. What seem to us bitter trials are often blessings in disguise.'"

It's not her best work, admittedly. Tired, her words merge together, tripping over each other as she stumbles onto the next sentence. But her only audience is unconscious, so she's not expecting any bad reviews.

"'This seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind.'"

Every now and again, Delphine will shift, or make a sound, reassuring Shay of her survival. Sometimes her noises are pained, though; actually more often than not, they are. She doesn't know if she's dreaming and maybe that's the cause of her suffering, or if it's the injuries her body sustained. She hopes it's not the latter because if things are this bad now, they will only be worse when she's awake to feel the full effects.

 _You can help with that._

At times, feeling particularly delirious from exhaustion, she fancies that Delphine's discomfort is the result of Shay's taste in reading. Perhaps she's not a fan of Oscar Wilde, or hates plays. At this, she'll smile a little, and read on with just a little more gusto.

By the hour, Delphine's phone will vibrate,and each time, Cosima's face will intrude upon Shay's mind, distressed. Eventually, she has to turn it off, just to escape the accusation of her worried eyes.

Just yesterday, Cosima refused to tell her why she'd been lying, or why her ex had seen fit to threaten her life. Now, Shay feels like _she_ _'s_ the villain in the tale, the one in need of forgiveness.

It doesn't sit well with her.

"Cosima."

Shay sighs, placing a hand on Delphine's head, both to reassure and to check for fever. Still damp to the touch, she is not dangerously hot and Shay lets the relief of this sink in.

"Why couldn't she be here?" she wonders as the blonde turns into her touch, seeking more in her sleep. _You want her._ That much is clear. _I might even say you need her._

 _So why? Why can_ _'t Cosima be here?_

 _Why did this happen?_

"What did you do, Delphine?"

. . .

 _When next Delphine opens her eyes, there is a shape, faintly human, hovering above her. It takes time to make out the features through the murky water but when she does a gasp breaks out of her. She chokes._

Cosima. You found me.

 _The brunette smiles down at her and a hand cuts through the surface of the water, coming to rest on her face. Fingers, hot and familiar, stroke her cheek and she feels a deep calm set in._

Cosima _._

 _The hand trails her face, the length of her neck, dances around the hollow of her collarbone a moment-_

Cosima

 _-then realigns with her neck. Gentle, soothing._

Cosima _._

 _Nails dig in. Delphine flinches. Fingers wrap around, pressing down and all of a sudden, the air she didn_ _'t need until then is gone._

 _She_ _'s suffocating._

" _Cosima."_

 _Another hand joins the first, thumbs pressing down on her windpipe as she struggles. Crimson water splashes around her, bubbles rising to the surface as she thrashes, tries to break fee, get up._

 _She can_ _'t breathe._

Cosima.

 _She finds the woman_ _'s hands, tries to pull, to disentangle._

Cosima.

 _Their gazes connect, Delphine_ _'s stricken, Cosima's smiling, full of love. She reaches up, struggles for her face, desperate to feel her, to prove that this is an illusion. This can't be real. Her hand breaks the surface, shivers amongst icy air, and finds her cheek, grasping._

 _Real. There._

Cosima.

 _She is drowning._

 _And Cosima won_ _'t let her go._

 _. . ._

Merrylegs survived.

The infection abated and he kept his leg, endured. Eventually, his wounds healed and he was returned to the paddock, though his gait now haltered by a permanent limp.

Despite his recovery, the trauma remained with him. He was never the same. Always happy horse, he grew sour with the days, ears pulled back in contempt at anyone who dared approach. Once he'd been the perfect child's pony, calm, measure, safe for all precious cargo. After the accident, he spooked at everything, though. Sometimes a mere flinch, others a frightful gallop, near running through a fence a second time. He even bit her grandmother once when she was putting on a halter and when returned to the company of other horses, he kicked and nipped all in proximity.

He trusted Shay, though; weeks of laying beside him, nursing him back to health had earned that. There was a bond there, deeper than the one they'd had before, formed through suffering and healing. He'd been forced to trust her, to rely on her and she had not betrayed him.

Not once did he forget that.

To this day, she's still the only one he ever let ride him after the accident. Of course, she's too big for that now, Merrylegs would buck her off if he ever had to contend with her weight. Last time she visited, he was a fat old pony, enjoying a pampered life on her grandpa's farm.

She thinks of him now as she dabs at the fresh layer of sweat on Delphine's brow, and misses the soft heat of the neck she used to press her face into, the smell of musk and hay.

Her dedication to Merrylegs during his recovery was something she carried into her medical career. She always had trouble distancing herself from her patients. It was good to be invested, but too much created a strain, a demand on the carer that could never be met. It led her to, more often than not, burning out, which decreased the amount of aid she could give to patients.

People told her this, and she knew it herself. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't create that distance. From the moment someone's life was in her hands, she was connected, emotionally involved.

She feels that same tie forming even now, with someone who she previously felt nothing but contempt and, admittedly, fear for. It's unnerving and she tries to fight it - the pull. It comes each time she checks the numbers on the monitor, her pulse, the rhythm of her breathing. Her reluctance to hold her hand falls away little by little each time, until there is none left at all; she takes it willingly and holds tight.

Shay imagines (hopes) it will be different when Delphine awakens. When she leaves this vulnerable state and returns to the woman who once made her cower, turned her dreams into nightmares. But still, when next she checks for fever and finds it gone, the relief is staggering, far too genuine.

Fiddling with the bangles on her wrist, she contemplates what to do. Nothing. She's done enough. Delphine is alive, recovering from something she would never have survived without her help. That's enough.

 _You can do more._

She picks up the book, chooses a passage, tries to read. Her fifth time on the same paragraph -

 _his face is twisted in agony, teeth tearing into his lip as he tries to suppress the scream. When she catches his eyes there is only suffering and terror, no recognition. She clenches his hand, wishing she could take that from him, give him a respite. She can_ _'t. She can't do anything. "Ryan-"_

 _-_ the book drops, tumbles off the bed, sprawls on the floor in a crippled heap. Her fingers are numb against its cover when she rescues it, sets it to safety on her pillow.

Getting up, she heads for the cell phone on her bedside table, is picking it up and dialing before her mind has even caught up; and when he answers on the sixth ring, just before the dial tone is itching to intrude, she only just remembers to breathe.

"'Ello."

"Hey." Her voice breaks. She clears her throat, tries again. "Hey, it's me. Shay. I need a favour."

...

 **A/N: So? What did you think? Any good? There'll be more Delphine next chapter since, spoiler, she's going to wake up (finally!). I'm really missing her P.O.V. Also, I'm starting school this week and I'm going to try to get the next chapter out in time but if I don't that's why. You've been forewarned :)**

 **Translation**

 **descends = (you go)down**


	6. Compromised

_**A/N: Hey guys, thankyou you so much for you reviews :)**_

 _ **...**_

" _Sorrow compressed my heart, and I felt I would die, and then . . . Well, then I woke up."_  
 _― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Dream of a Ridiculous Man_

 _. . ._

' _Give your sisters all my love.'_

 _She makes herself step back, to loosen her grip and do no nothing as Cosima slips through her fingers. The loss is immediate, and her smile crumbles at the edges but she keeps it there, eyes bright. Her sight fogs, she clears it with a blink, another, dredging back the swelling tide within her - she has spent too many nights crying already, she will not waste her last doing the same._

 _She has to turn away, can_ _'t bear to look any longer at the love in Cosima's eyes, the confusion on her face. There is a question there that she can't answer. If she does not turn, if she does not go now, she never will._

 _Cosima disappears from her sight and Delphine exhales, makes the first step forward, away. Then another._

 _If this was a story, she would be stopped by the sound of Cosima_ _'s voice calling her back; if this was a story, she would spin around and race into her open arms, reuniting with a kiss that would last for days; if this was a story, Neolution would be slain and the axe hanging over her head would never fall; if this was a story, every thought of Cosima would not be accompanied by the tangible fear of her passing._

 _If this was a story . . ._

 _This is not a story and Cosima does not call and Delphine does not stop._

 _She walks away and doesn_ _'t look back back._

 _And even though her shoulders fall in relief, something breaks away in Delphine_ _'s heart._

 _. . ._

She's just beginning to doze off when the knock comes. Her aching muscles and foggy head beg her to leave it and, for a moment, she even considers the demand. When the knock comes again, though, followed by a far too exuberant "Yo!", she succumbs to defeat and drags herself out of bed. She's spares a cursory glance at Delphine's still slumbering form as she passes, reassuring herself of signs of life. It's been nearly two days and she's only woken up twice, both times fleeting, too delirious to make anything of her surroundings before falling back into the depths of unconsciousness once more (Shay almost envies her this).

She's still alive, though, and her fever hasn't come back.

All good things really, considering, and she's beginning to feel tentatively optimistic.

"Yo, ShayD!" A great big, hulk of a man bursts in the second she opens the door, knocking her back a startled step. "Long time no see." Grinning, he holds out a fist for her to bump and, dazed, she responds automatically, muscle memory kicking in to gear even as her brain lags behind. The next thing she knows, arms are wrapping around her, pulling her into a bear hug that nearly lifts her off her feet and she gasps. It's bewildering, even a little invasive, but the tight cocoon of heat and muscle also has a settling effect. For the first time in three days, her smile is genuine.

"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me," he says upon releasing her. His grin is as wide as ever, though his eyes hint at a hidden severity.

Her chest tightens. There's an apology on the tip of her tongue. She bites it back.

' _Never apologize for doing right by yourself,'_ Neal's voice, honest, certain, reverberates in her head. The reminder is comforting, if not believable.

Shay grins up at him, cheeks hurting as she wills her chest to expand. "I don't think anyone could ever forget about you, Enz. I mean the hair alone . . ." She trails off, twirling a finger at the ridiculous blue spikes on top of his head. For a moment she forgets herself, feeling the smile.

Enzo scoffs. "You're one to talk. What happened to my beautiful curls, babe?" He fingers a lock of blonde hair - which now lies flat and subdued down her back - and shakes his head in dismay. She forgot how attached he was to her curls. Bringing a straightener into combat hadn't been high on her list of priorities so, during their time together in the field, he'd become well accustomed to her hair's natural state. Most of the time it was up in a bun, combed back so tight the strands pulled at her skull, often to the point of pain. Off duty, however, she would let it out to relax. Curls were a staple in Enzo's family and he said it reminded him of his mother and sister, even moreso when, back then, she had yet to dye her hair blonde.

She rolls her eyes, though her mouth pulls upwards at the crestfallen look on his face. "It's called a straightening."

"Murder more like," he mutters but lets it go, shuffling back and dropping her hair.

Shay uses the respite to take him in. He looks better than the last time she saw him, having filled out a bit and done away with stained, stinky old clothes, and he no longer tries to hide the prosthetic hand.

The olive skin under his eyes is shadowed from lack of sleep though, so she knows the nightmares are still persistent.

Her stomach clenches. _You did the right thing._

Still, she can't help but say, "You know, you'd see a lot more of me if you actually showed up to group every once and a while." It's a weak offering but it's all she can safely give.

He smiles but ducks his head. "You know me, ShayD, not much for the sharing. Or the listening," he adds, attempting humor. She allows the deflection, smiling weakly.

"You never know, you might surprise yourself." But she knows the battle is lost. She can't make him go and, at the end of the day, it's not up to her to decide how he handles his scars.

"Hey, out of the two of us I don't think I'm the one with issues. Certainly been a while since I had to clean blood off my floor." He nods at the stains on her carpet that she still hasn't been able to get out. She's probably going to have invest in a new one but that's a problem for another day. "An' when I say 'a while', I mean 'never'."

Shay clamps her lips together. "Touché."

He continues his scan of the apartment, eyes finally lighting on the unconscious woman in her bed. He whistles low and Shay winces. Yeah, she was hoping that would get passed over.

Upon taking in the the blood spattered sheets and various medical paraphernalia, Enzo's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.

"Man, if this is what happens when you have sex, I gotta tell yah, I think you're doing it wrong."

He yelps at the smack she lands on his shoulder. "Have some respect." Inside, she quivers with a mixture amusement and disgust.

"So, you gonna explain this to me or what?"

She hesitates. "Honestly, I wouldn't know where to start. Do you mind?"

"Nah, say no more." He rolls with it happily enough but she can detect an added tightness to his face, an underlining suspicion and worry. For all his joking, he knows things are far from alright. "So, what'll it be? The usual?"

In the past day or so, she's managed to work out some of her anxiety through intermittent sessions of yoga, meditation, reading, hair straightening and listening to Cat Stevens. At Enzo's words, though, her muscles stiffen, nerves tensing as her jaw clenches in place.

He grins, waving her down. "I'm just messin' with you ShayD. Here, just like you ordered." In the next moment, he's reaching into his pocket and retrieving a small plastic sleeve, through which she can see a handful of tiny, circular blue pills.

He holds it out to her.

Stomach coiling in on itself, she accepts, turning the sleeve over in a cautious inspection. Apart from an engraved 10 on one side, there's nothing to label the tablets as what she asked for, but she trusts Enzo not to have pulled a fast one on her. Whatever his side business, he's never been anything but honest and and faithful. At least, in her experience.

She offers him a grateful smile and, not wanting to hold onto the morphine any longer than necessary, departs briefly to stow it away in a desk drawer. Her hands linger on the wood, nails digging into the surface.

Afterwords, she grabs her wallet from nearby, rifling through it for some cash to present to Enzo. "Thanks for this."

It really was was good of him, considering their estrangement, and especially on such short notice. His hands came up to halt her, though. "Oh no, this one's on me. Think of it as an early birthday gift."

Her hand stays poised, holding out the money. "My birthday's not for six months."

His eyebrows raise. "Really?" He ducks his head, recovering with a nod. "I mean, yeah, course. Well, you know me, not one for dates. At least this way I won't look like an asshole when I forget to get you anything."

"You? Look like an asshole? Never." She smirks, eyes lighting at the faux scowl he sends her way. Neither of them mention the fact that they haven't given each other birthday presents for more than two years now. Shay bites her lip. "Thankyou. Really."

Frown smoothing out, he nods. "Just take care of yourself, OK? I may be a dense little shit but even I can see somethin' ain't right. I mean, the passed out lady on your bed kinda gives it away. And it certainly don't look like you just had sexy times, no matter what I said."

She can't help but pull a face at the idea of 'sexy times' with Delphine. Wouldn't _that_ just bring a whole new level of messed up to her life?

God help her, now she's actually picturing it.

 _Thankyou for that, Enzo._

"Also," he continues. "I ran into Styles. Wanted me to give you this."

"You saw Styles? He's been dodging my calls, I can't-" she stops, mouth slackening as he reveals a gun. "No."

Absolutely not.

Why does everyone keep handing her guns?

Enzo's gaze turns imploring, eyes growing big and puppy like. Nope. Not gonna happen. "He's worried about you. Said you had some kind of break in the other day."

She's going to kill him. She told him about what happened with Delphine in confidence. "It was nothing. It's been sorted."

"A break in's not nothing. Crazy shit's been happening lately, Shay. You need a way to defend yourself. And a bat aint gonna cut it."

"I don't own a bat."

He stares at her. "What the hell? You're a teeny tiny human living alone in a big bad world - where's your survival instinct, girl?"

Where it's supposed to be, doing just fine without the help of any guns and/or various other violent paraphernalia. One might even say it's doing great. Though that someone would not be Neal - not after this whole Delphine mess.

Shay refuses to stock pile her house with weapons, though. Putting aside the fact that the mere idea puts her on edge, they would totally clash with the whole bohemian vibe she's got going on. _Nope. Not gonna do it._ "I can take care of myself," she reminds him, gently but firmly.

"Yeah, I can tell from the blood on the floor." He shakes his head. "What the fuck's going on? I mean, seriously, Davydov, you look like shit."

 _Yeah, so people keep saying._

"You've seen me worse."

He has to look away and she bites her lip, berating herself for bringing up things best left buried. She didn't bring him here to make him feel guilty. "Hey. I'm OK. Really. I think we both know I would have asked you for something else if I wasn't."

He nods but avoids her gaze a moment longer, taking a breath before facing her again. His gaze is set, determined. "Take the gun? For my own peace of mind, if nothing else. Plus, Styles will beat the shit out of me if he finds out I left you without it."

Styles needs to mind his own business. The guy finds time to open up some kind of underground armory but can't answer the phone?

"Funnily enough, I already have one." Not that she has any designs on using it, dismantled and safely tucked away in her safe as it is. Then again, maybe she could keep it out, for show if nothing else. There's a chance that whoever shot Delphine might come back for more, though she doubts they'll ever think to look for her here, having some form of defense might not go awry.

Worse comes to worse, she can shoot at their kneecaps.

Her stomach curls at the thought.

She's never actually shot anyone. Medics are armed for defense only and, luckily, she was never called upon to use any of the weapons in her arsenal for that. She's not sure she could have even if the need did arise.

Violence has never been her forte.

She struggles with paint ball.

Enzo's different. She's seen him shoot people. She's seen him him kill. She wonders if they haunt him - the people he's killed - as much as the people she couldn't save haunt her?

She crosses her arms, hugging herself, banishing any thoughts of blue that start to appear as a remedy.

Enzo gapes at her. "You got one? What d'you mean yah already got one?" he sputters. "You hate guns."

"Yes, I do. I do hate guns." _Nice of you to remember._

"But you got one?"

"Yeah."

"A real one?"

"Yes."

He pauses."Why?"

Shay shrugs her shoulders, nods her head at Delphine. "She had one on her."

This seems too much for the poor man. "She had one . . . You let someone with a gun into your apartment? After you just had someone break into that apartment? Are you high?"

Best not to mention that those two people are one and the same.

"I have it under control." She doesn't give him time to protest. "You said something about 'crazy shit'? What did you mean? What's been happening?" She hasn't heard anything in the news.

Attention span ever short, he jumps onto the new subject like a puppy's who's just been thrown a ball."Oh, that, yeah. Some nutter went totally rambo on my uncle and his people." His dark eyes belly the nonchalance of his tone and she tenses. Sometimes she forgets - the dangers involved in his work - that just because he's no longer overseas on the front lines, doesn't mean he's safe.

"Dead?"

"Yep."

Shay reaches out, squeezes his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Enzo shrugs it off. "Eh, never really liked him. Guy seemed to have too much of a fetish for body parts. They killed my cuz, Luisa, though too."

"Were you close?"

"Close? Me and Luisa? Nah, that bitch was scary as fuck!"

Her mouth quirks. "You've been to war, Enz."

"Yeah but you ain't met my family. Something went wrong there, man, something went wrong . . ." He shakes his head morosely and she has to bite her lip to clamp down on her amusement. "Nah, it's her kid I'm worried about. She's barely two, you know? And I'm just worried social services are gonna get their hands on her."

Shay sighs and squeezes his shoulder once more. She doesn't know Enzo's family but she aches for the little girl nonetheless. It's hard losing a mother and she can only take comfort in the fact that the child will be too young to remember the loss. Though who knows if that's better. Maybe it's worse having no memories at all. "It'll be OK," she comforts, rubbing up and down his arm.

"Yeah. Yeah, 'course it will." He forces the muscles of his mouth to make a smile and she returns it. "Anyway, it's got the whole family running scared. I mean, my uncle, he was one scary mother fucker. So anyone with the balls to take him out, well, they got 'em shakin' in their boots a lil' bit . . ." He shrugs.

Shay frowns, hands clenching. "Are you in trouble?

"Me? Nah. I keep below the radar, tried to stay out of all that mess. All I'm sayin' is, take care." He levels his gaze on her. "Seems that all the crazy's are out an' about. Don't want to see you gettin' caught up in it."

"I think Pouchy and I keep to different scenes."

"I don' know - guy really loved yoga." He raises an eyebrow and glances over her shoulder at Delphine in the bed. "So what's your excuse for this then?"

"It's . . . complicated." She's getting to be really sick of that word.

"Uh huh."

…

 _(_ _ **compromised host:**_ _A host with lowered resistance to infection and disease for any of several reasons. The host may be seriously debilitated (due to malnutrition, cancer, diabetes, leukemia, or another infectious disease), traumatized (from surgery or injury), immunosuppressed, or have an altered microbiota due to prolonged use of antibiotics._

 _- Illustrated Dictionary of Microbiology by Sunil Vrajlal Patel)_

…

Pain. That's all she's aware of in those first few minutes as consciousness trickling back in - radiating from her stomach, scratching against the dry muscle of her throat, pressing in against her skull; pain.

Words pervade her hearing, though she makes no sense of them, the voice unrecognizable to her befuddled brain. Vaguely, she notes that she is not alone, though she feels nothing to start with at this - no relief, no fear. It is merely a statement of fact.

"…so, yeah, this is me, leaving message number . . . 23. For God sakes, just ring me back."

There is someone else here.

Her lids are caked down, crusted with sleep and almost too heavy to lift. She fights to open them, to peel back that layer of mystery and unveil the world. Light hits her at once, blinding, tearing into her retinas and burning. She winces and blinks rapidly in an attempt adjust.

Shapes blur around her, refusing to come into focus, and she groans, searching. "Cosima?"

There is something trapping her, pressing down and smothering.

Blinking, she forces the shapes to contrast and align themselves, struggling to make out her surroundings as anxiety starts bleed into her awareness.

She is in a bed. She is in a bed and there is a window open nearby, the source of light. And there is something heavy on her chest. The weight triggers a panic, heart seizing, and it takes her a moment to ascertain that the attacker on top of her is no more than a layer of blankets, of which she is heavily engulfed.

Exhaling, Delphine waits for the terror to fade out, and closes her eyes, allowing them a rest from the persistent light.

It is in this state that the heat gets to her, that she realizes she has, at some point, become uncomfortably hot.

Shifting to try and free herself, she cries out, pain ripping through her middle. She clutches the spot automatically but this only worsens the agony and she recoils. _Quoi?_

Her awareness is stolen by the sound of running footsteps and she opens her eyes, clenched tight against the pain, to glimpse a small woman running towards her. Short. Blonde. Cream clothes. That familiar uprising of nausea. Shay.

She blinks.

Wincing, Delphine tries to right herself, to rise up and gain a better look.

She watches, dazed, as Shay takes a seat on the edge of the bed, setting down a glass of water on the bedside table. The _tap_ as it hits the surfacemakes her flinch.

What?

"Hey, easy," Shay warns, and immediately there are hands on her, restraining yet gentle as they help her in her struggle to sit up. "I got grey hairs patching you back together, don't you dare undo all that good work."

What? "What?"

She ignores the question at first, reaching for the glass of water and holding it out to her. Delphine swallows; her throat is raw, completely devoid of all moisture, and aching for it. She lifts a heavy hand to accept, a sting alerting her to the IV attached to her arm.

Her hand trembles around the glass, limb struggling under the extra weight, and Shay hesitates in pulling away, helping to steady her grip.

In an attempt to distract from this debilitation, Delphine raises the glass to her lips in a hasty sip. Parched, she gulps down the water, seeking some semblance of relief.

"Slowly,slowly," shay cautions, hand hovering at the ready in case she loses her grip on the glass.

Delphine chokes, spluttering as some of the water goes down wrong. Immediately, the glass is being taken from her, a hand coming around to rub at her back; wide, soothing circles that ride the quake of each violent cough. "Easy."

Delphine's face burns.

Swallowing, she rights herself, avoiding Shay's gaze as she hands her back the glass. This time, Delphine is sure to take small, tentative sips.

She asks to be brought up to date.

"You've been out for two days. I don't know if it was the blood loss or the fever you caught later on, but you seem to be doing better now." She shrugs. But the nonchalant attitude does not extend to her face. Her features are tight, though, layered with tension.

Fever.

Blood loss.

Patching her together.

Shot.

She was shot.

And Shay found her.

And brought her here.

And Cosima . . .

Cosima doesn't know.

She's . . .

She's _alive_.

Delphine nearly sags under the weight of this realization, though part of her struggles to believe it. She was resigned to death, knew it was coming the moment Nealon decreed it ( _the moment you stepped into Rachel_ _'s shoes_ ), and accepted the fact. Even after Shay found her, even when she awoke in the middle of surgery to the hope that she might be saved, she was waiting for death.

Logically then, she should feel almost euphoric at the reprieve. The emotion won't come, though, instead she is left bereft, lost even. If this is a second chance, she has no idea what to do with it, or where even to begin.

This isn't the first time she's escaped death.

But it is useless to compare the two experiences - they're light years apart.

And she has Cosima now.

Doesn't she?

Taking a sip of the water, Delphine forces herself to refocus on Shay. "How did the surgery go?"

Shay has been watching her closely, eyes narrowed and searching ( _what do you hope to find?_ ). When Delphine speaks, though, she draws back, expression relaxing slightly . "Pretty well actually. It really was a clean shot, and the bullet must have stayed intact when it passed through since there weren't any fragments left inside. At least, he couldn't seem to find any."

She sips carefully at her glass, the water soothing her parched throat if not the rest of her. "Was there any organ damage?"

Shay nods. "There was a laceration to the liver, if you remember, but that's been patched up and shouldn't cause any more problems. And your temperature's come back down to normal. You'll be weak still for a while until your cells replace the blood you lost but . . . As far as I can tell, you'll be fine." She offers her first smile, small, lacking in sincerity even, but the relief in her eyes is genuine.

Delphine hesitates. "Thankyou." She is surprised to realize that she means it. If she is alive right now, if she is to live, it is all down to this woman; this woman who has no reason at all to help her.

Her grip clenches around the glass.

So why has she?

Shay shrugs and looks away and Delphine takes the opportunity to study her. Her hair is in an uneven bun, more than a few strands escaping and clouding her features - 'messy' is the only word for it, and not in a way that might ever be considered stylish. Her face, from what Delphine can see of it, is pale, features drawn and lips colorless and chapped. The darkening bruises under her eyes lend a hollowed out appearance and she wonders if Shay has managed any sleep at all in the last few days.

Guilt licks at her heart but she smacks it away.

"So, can you tell me how much pain you're in?" Shay asks, turning back to her.

Delphine purses her lips. "Not too much."

It is an obvious lie; or, at least, Shay seems to think so, features succumbing to disbelief. "Yeah. OK. We'll go with 10mg to start with. Give it thirty minutes to see if it needs upping." Delphine opens her mouth to protest but she's already up and leaving. Something surges through her, hands acting without thought, striking out. They grasp for the other woman, fumbling and desperate to latch on

 _Don_ _'t leave!_

Shay catches them, halting in her retreat and her brow furrows in confusion.

She is not alone.

What is wrong with her?

Her heart is racing, sweat pooling at her collar and every muscle in her body has snapped to attention.

The sensations are not unfamiliar to her but she is helpless in discerning a cause.

Delphine flushes, brain scrambling to ascertain the reason for her actions. It's something Shay seems to reach before her, however, features evening out and weak smile forcing her lips. "It's OK. I'll be right back." She clenches her hands once before letting go.

She has never come to terms with her body's ability _(and seeming eagerness)_ to rebel against her. As a scientist, she understands the mechanics of it, how animals, and indeed humans, have a built in fail safe to improve their chances of survival. That the sensations she feels are merely her amgydala perceiving something as a danger and sending out a distress signal to her hypothalamus; which then passes the message on to her adrenal glands, thus activating her central nervous system and releasing epinephrine into her bloodstream; causing a mass of physiological changes all designed to further her survival under threat.

And all this happening before her mind can even begin to notice.

It is an intricate, remarkable design that lends proof to the breathtaking feats of biology.

Of course, there are some shortcomings. The sabertooth tigers of past, that prime and original 'threat', are no longer around to be an issue. Her genetic makeup, along with the rest of humanity's, has not yet evolved to recognize this, however, and so her brain improvises. Today's threats could be a parking ticket, running late for work, a stranger, or - as was the case when she was a child - a case of disputing parents.

She understands it, is in awe of it even, and comprehends the need for such a creation . . .

But that is where the scientist in her ends.

Otherwise, she is overtaken taken by fear and resentment in the face of such nihilistic potential on the part of her own body.

She has always preferred to be an outside observer of things, rather than a participant.

Shay returns with a small blue pill in her open palm, holding it out to her. "It's morphine."

Delphine hesitates. She can see no packaging, no proof of Shay's word. Just a little tablet, harmless if not for the many things she knows could be contained within. It is no Neolution worm, certainly, but it could still be just as lethal.

"Really?" Shay draws back, having guessed the reason for her reluctance and seeming utterly unimpressed. "If I was going to poison you, I wouldn't have gone to such efforts to save your life."

She's not wrong and, it's possible, Delphine's spent too long in the company of the sisters and DYAD both but, still, she dithers.

Morphine would undeniably be a blessing right now, though. She was, as Cosima would say, 'bullshitting' when she rated her pain as inconsequential. In truth, the agony her body has undergone in the last few days is akin to nothing she's ever felt before.

With that in mind, she raises her palm to her mouth and forces the tablet down, following after with a hasty gulp of water. It scrapes down her dry throat and she swallows, trying to alleviate the uncomfortable sensation.

She hesitates before sparing Shay a nod of appreciation. It can't have been easy to come by morphine or, for that matter, any of the things she's employed to help Delphine.

Whatever her means, she owes her for all she has done.

It is an uncomfortable thought.

Shay shakes her head. "And I thought Cosima had trust issues."

"Perks of the job," Delphine responds, smile toeing the bitter edge of wry.

Her mouth twists. "Right. Because science, that's such a nefarious business." To this, Delphine is given no chance to respond. "I need to change your bandage."

It's not a request, but she waits for Delphine's nod before pulling back the blankets and parting her coat. She cannot remember what became of the rest of her clothes, and is more than a little self-conscious to discover herself completely bear beneath the jacket. Her hand fists around the top part, keeping it closed, as Shay leans forward to inspect her stomach.

Growing up, Delphine was never entirely comfortable in her own skin. Nudity, in general, she had no problem with, as long as she was not the one on display. In many ways, she was fascinated by it, and its course throughout history, how it could be viewed as both divine and a sin, natural and obscene. Coming to America, she was intrigued and confused by the country's extreme culture of policing when it came to sex and nudity; at times she even found herself nostalgic for France, for a culture where guns were more alarming than genitalia.

From a biological perspective, it makes no more sense for human beings to be ashamed of their own flesh than it does for, say, a chimpanzee. Any self-consciousness is merely the result of societal perceptions and social conditioning. Indeed, there are cultures where clothes are done away with completely, or worn only as a protection from the climate.

So no, the naked form does not bother her, not on a rational level.

But there is an inherent sense of vulnerability when it comes to being laid bare that she has always struggled with. It is an uneasiness, however, that she has managed to overrule during sex, for the most part. The pleasures provided by the act present a suitable distraction. There is also a comfort in knowing that she is not the only one so exposed.

And with Cosima, the feeling disappeared altogether after their first few times together (though self-conciousness is hard when you have a beautiful young woman serenading your breasts; especially when it involves some very bad, very off-key love ballads).

The memory brings a small smile to her face, which dies upon the present reaffirming itself.

Clenching the material in her hand, she forces the thought aside.

There are two thick square sheets taped over Delphine's right side, one smaller than the other. She winces as the other woman carefully unsticks the largest, her skin pulling with the tape and aggravating the burn of her wound. Shay is careful, though, pressing down on her stomach to lessen the stretch.

Curious, she takes in the angry red patch of skin beneath, the zigzag of perfect stitches along the small incision line. From what she can tell, it seems to be healing well. Though inflamed, that is to be expected, encouraged even, and there's no worrying discoloration or pus. It has been well taken care of.

Another thing she owes Shay for.

Having disappeared for a minute to wash her hands after doing away with the dirty old bandage, Shay settles beside her once more. Her movements are practiced as she carefully cleans the wound with a soaked cloth, pats it dry and reseals with a fresh layer of gauze. Delphine supposes it's something she's already done many times, whilst she was unconscious.

She's not sure how to feel about that. Cosima's lover, the woman she was prepared to kill if it meant the clone's safety, saving her, nursing her back to health? In her weakened state, she could just as easily have taken a knife to her throat.

That would have made more sense.

"Why are you doing this?" The question escapes without consent but she doesn't take it back.

The younger woman glances up at her momentarily before training her eyes once more on her work. "I don't know about you, but I try not to let people die when I can help it. Bad Karma." She presses a layer of tape along the top edge. "Even if I do really want to punch you."

It doesn't convince her, not entirely. The past months with Cosima have filled her with a sense of paranoia that refuses to abate, even when uncalled for. Everyone has an ulterior motive, no-one is truly what they seem, what they say they are - _that_ she has learnt, if nothing else.

Though her suspicions are probably founded, Delphine forces them into suppression for now. She has no choice but to accept what Shay is giving her. She is, for all intents and purposes, at her mercy, with no hope of outside aid. Shay is, as much as either of them may despise it, all she has right now.

She wonders if Neolution knows of her survival, if they are out there searching for her, right now. Do they know where she is? Are they waiting, poised outside the building, for Shay or herself to depart, waiting to spring?

Or will they, when the time comes, not wait at all? Charge in, armed and ready, to carry out their business regardless of who might pay witness or try to stop them.

Is she, in fact, putting Shay in danger just by being here?

Maybe it would have been best if she was never found.

The first bandage over with, Shay moves onto the next, peels it back to expose a small, blistering hole, just beginning to scab over.

It's still bizarre to Delphine, the knowledge that she's been shot. She, the girl who always did what she was told, kept herself from being noticed and never tried drugs (until her girlfriend got her high on helium in a lab one day), was _shot_. She doubts her parents would recognize her if they saw her now. Of course they wouldn't. She cannot recognize herself.

' _Delphine, why are you doing this?'_

 _The metal is warm in her grip, a consequence of being stored between the flesh of her ankle and the leather of her shoe. Such an inconspicuous little object, so simple - hardly comparable to the horrific caliber of a gun. Yet it possesses an immeasurable potential for damage._

 _She has the scars to prove it._

 _It is clear the instant Shay_ _'s eyes lock onto the razor. Up until now, she has been agitated, bubbling with an anxious frustration begging to spill into rage, but now she stills. Her face blanches and all anger disappears beneath that instinctual onslaught of terror._

 _She can_ _'t blink -_

 _The understanding clear_

 _\- she might not survive this._

 _Delphine_ _'s pulse starts to race, her mouth goes dry. But, unlike Shay, it is not terror that she feels._

Why are you doing this?

"I don't expect it to mean anything to you, but what I did," she confesses, "I did for Cosima."

Finishing up, Shay leans back, placing the leftover supplies away in a medical kit on the floor. She throws the dirtied bandaged in a nearby bin.

"Oh, so it wasn't just a fit of jealousy on the part of a psychotic ex." She crosses her arms and looks down at her, challenging. Her eyes are cold, watered with anger, but it is the exhaustion there that catches at Delphine. It demands honesty.

"A little jealousy," she admits with a hesitant smile and Shay's mouth twitches in response, whether from amusement or irritation.

Though the truth borders more on resentment, rather than jealousy. She resented the parts of Cosima Shay could have that Delphine sacrificed, the inhibited joy of a relationship outside of DYAD that they were never allowed to begin with. She resented that Shay, who had given nothing, could have Cosima and she, who had given everything, could not.

"Figured." Shay sighs, arms dropping at her sides. She hesitates. "I know you just woke up, and you're probably still in a lot of pain, so I'm gonna keep the questions to a minimum, OK? But there _are_ some things I need to know."

Delphine stiffens. Questions - the very thing she has been hoping to avoid, at least for now. She is hardly at her best, her usual level of sharpness gone, and she cannot think of how she will begin to spin together enough believable lies and diversions to satisfy Shay.

The truth is not an option, she knows this. Outside the fact that the truth is not hers to reveal, it also happens to be harder to believe than any lie. Shay might just drop her off at a psychiatric ward if the truth passes her lips. It's not as though she can back up her tale with evidence, all the clones are out of reach, (hopefully) safe.

She also doesn't entirely trust Shay. She may have given her Cosima's tag number but that was before she showed up in the parking lot at DYAD. Oddly enough, it is her actions in saving Delphine's life that make her suspicious.

What was she doing there?

Why did she help?

It seems she has her own questions.

"Is this something we can involve the police in?" Shay starts.

She hesitates, remembering the detective that has helped the sisters in the past. Bell? But that would lead back to Cosima. She blinks.

 _Don_ _'t you want it leading back to Cosima?_

"Non."

Shay doesn't look surprised by the answer. "OK, which leads me to my next question. Are you tied up in something illegal? Did you," she exhales, fingers the material of her white chiffon top, "did you hurt someone?"

Rachel, flailing, spasming under the pressure of her thumb, digging in, digging in-

Shay, trembling, pale, her feet huddling together for comfort, for warmth, bare and exposed-

Nealon, gasping, chocking on the floor, blood ripping up through his shirt-

"No. But . . . The people who attacked me, they are not beholden to the law."

Shay frowns. "Does this have anything to do with that Custard thing you thought I was working for?"

"Castor," the correction is out of her mouth before she can think, a wince shuttering her features. ". . . and yes." That is not too much. Enough, but not so much to be dangerous.

"OK, then." Shay nods. "So is there anyone I can call for you? Family? Friends?"

It is a simple question, _so simple_ , yet it causes something to press down on Delphine's chest.

Family? She has none. Not here, and what help could her parents be back in France? She has exchanged no more than birthday and Christmas cards with them since coming here. They have never even heard mention of Cosima.

No friends. Only Cosima and Scott. Sarah, maybe, but she would not keep her secret, not from her sister. Scott she could bully into doing so but it would be putting him in a dangerous position - hiding a target of Neolution would put more than just his act at risk. And, though it is terrible, she is far more willing to endanger Shay than him.

"No."

"What about Cosima?"

Delphine tenses.

Shay catches it, watching her closely."You know, she's left about a thousand messages on your phone. She's worried about you."

She panics. "You didn't-"

"I didn't say anything," Shay reassures. "But I think you should. She knows something's up."

Delphine looks away and Shay purses her lips.

"Fine. I guess you can stay here until you're recovered." She takes the empty glass from her hand and rises.

It is an offering she does not deserve.

She should tell Shay what exactly she's gotten involved in, impress upon her the danger of it. It is unfair of Delphine, to enlist her help without ensuring she knows the whole story, every threat, every risk. Neolution will be soon to realize she is not dead, if they haven't already - the lack of a body is a hard thing to miss - and she has no doubt that they will come for her. And when they do . . .

There will be Shay.

But she holds back.

Delphine has grown accustomed to playing the bad guy, to _being_ so _._

Something lands with a light thud in her lap, breaking into her thoughts. She stares confusedly at the cell phone, _her_ cell phone.

Shay is disappearing into the kitchen (her pulse ignites, hands clenching), but she cranes her head to look back at Delphine. "Room and board comes at the cost of a phone call." She pauses, the lightness fading from her tone as she absorbs the other woman's reaction. "At least let her know you're OK." She waits for no response, turns away and continues on her path.

Delphine stares down at the phone, toying with it.

The role of the liar is something she has grown familiar with too.

...

 **A/N:**

 **Hey, I was wondering if I could ask a huge favour of you guys. See I want to be an author one day and I'm hoping to help improve my writing through my fanfics. Anyway, I was hoping you guys could take the time to comment on what you didn't like/what didn't work, what do you do like, what you'd prefer to see more of, what lines stood out to you or that you hated, etc. That way, hopefully I can get better. It would be a huge help and I would be immensely grateful. Of course, it's not a requirement or anything, I'm already so grateful to you all just for taking the time to read this :)**

 **Translation**

 **Quoi: What?**


	7. Immune Response Genes

**_A/N: Can I just say I love you guys? I love you guys. You've been leaving me such lovely comments and I appreciate that to the moon and back. In saying that, I've got some bad news. I'm going overseas tonight so I won't be making any updates for about 3-4 weeks. Sorry! But here's a chapter for you now. Unfortunately, it's not a very good chapter. I struggled with it a lot but I hope it's semi pleasing? Ooh, and there's a familiar face in here too. No Cosima, though. She and Delphine won't be reuniting until about the second half of this story but we will be checking in on her soon (either the next chapter or the one after)._**

* * *

 _( **Immune Response genes:**_ _The genes, including those within the MHC, that together determine the overall level of immune response to a given antigen.)_

 _. . ._

Delphine intended to call her. She really did. She had the phone out, contact up, the ring rattling in the caverns of her ears and then . . .

She answered.

' _Delphine?'_

And Delphine froze.

There was a time before Delphine ever touched a blade, when water was her tool of choice. She would swallow the air in a massive gulp and duck beneath the surface. It began innocently enough - counting the seconds that ticked by, seeing how long she could hold that breath, competing against all the times before; a game, she hypothesizes, that most children play.

 _How long can I stay under? How long can I last without air?_

But then, somewhere along the way, she cannot remember when or why (there was a reason, there is always a reason, there is no effect without cause), the game shifted. No longer was she simply holding her breath, now she was struggling not to breathe. Before, the competition was won every time she passed a second longer under the surface, broke a new record. Now, the only way to win was to never surface at all.

And new sequence of questions would cloud her head:

 _How long can I stay down here?_

 _How long can I stay before my body makes me rise?_

 _Forever?_

 _Can I stay forever?_

The answer was no. Always.

She could not fight the urge, could not resist. When her lungs seemed to tear apart in her chest and her mind grew faint, instinct kicked in. Uncontrollable.

 _Struggle. Kick. Rise. Breathe._

 _Live._

She thinks of this now, phone pressed against her cheek, Delphine's own name echoing throughout the hollow structure of her ear. Because she feels it. Cosima's voice, it is all those times she ruptured the surface and gasped for air. Hearing it is the breath she did not know she was without, crashing down her windpipe and filling up her lungs.

If before she was dying, now her lungs are granted life.

And just like all those times when she found herself thrust back into life, it is too much. The _world_ is too much. Pain finds its peak, her heart sets a breaking pace, and all over her body trembles with energy. If there is a switch for emotion, then her brain lights upon it now. Hormones ignite, thrust into her blood stream and race its circuit, over and over. Chemicals spark in her brain, misfiring signals and stirring her neurons into a frenzy. She cannot even guess which have been chosen (norepinephrine, endorphins, dopamine, serotonin, opioids,…), perhaps all of them, and she feels at once like she might collapse from joy and burst forth with the sobs of devastation.

Living has always hurt so much more than dying.

'Delphine?'

She hangs up.

It is unexplainable this . . . this utter _dread_ that arrests her at the mere sound of Cosima's voice. Why? When even at this very moment her insides shiver with anticipation at the thought of her touch, her smile, her kiss. She wants with all her being, down to the nucleus of her every cell, to wrap her arms around the woman and pull her close, never release.

And it is the last thing she wants.

These two sides war within her, bloody and brutal and . . . _meaningless_. Incomprehensible.

She does not want Cosima involved. Does not want the guilt of her injury on Cosima's shoulders, nor have her placed under further threat from Neolution. Delphine has it planned: she will recover, she will contact Cosima and she will go into hiding (perhaps with the help of Mrs Sadler). Or perhaps she will not go into hiding at all. What use will she be to the sisters then? What use will she be to Cosima?

Regardless, it is all very logical, her reasons for not involving Cosima.

These sensations, though, this fear, they are not logical at all. It is yet another (despicable) rebellion on the part of her body and she is more than a little tempted to throw the phone against the wall, shatter it.

If she has not the backbone to use it then why not destroy it?

Delphine resists and clenches it in her hand instead, hard. Shay's comment from earlier, the condition for Delphine staying, oozes to the surface of her overcrowded brain. A call. That was all that was asked of her. One call. And yet here she is, trembling like it was a call to arms.

Delphine bites her lip.

A glance into the kitchen reveals a bustling Shay, dicing up a sweet potato and what looks to be spring onions. She is the perfect picture of obliviousness, eyes never straying from her task, but the frame lacks honesty - the distance between them is too small for Shay to have noticed nothing.

In the end, she compromises, sending off a text - short, simple, to the point and, most importantly, nothing to arouse suspicion. Delphine wants to put Cosima's worries at ease - especially when all her present time and energy should be going into the development of a cure - but she also wants to keep the lies to a minimum. It's a feat not easily accomplished, but somehow she manages a juggling of the two that borders on satisfactory.

Thirty minutes later, Delphine is toying with that same phone. Without anything to do, she has fallen into scouring the internet and checking her inbox, thumb ticking against the screen. In that last regard, there is nothing noteworthy. Inquiries and itineraries from DYAD and Topside employees who haven't yet heard of her demise; spam; and one brow raising email from Felix. This is not unusual, at some point Cosima made an error of judgment and shared Delphine's ddress, and ever since he's been spamming her inbox with filthy jokes, nagging, lectures and the occasional cat video. The emails stopped some time after she broke up with Cosima, though there was one last message with an inflammatory subject line that (fearing an oncoming headache), she neglected to open.

She deletes the ones from work and, after giving Felix's a brief read ( _'…You're being a right knob, you know that? Stop your gallivanting and give your girlfriend a ring…_ _'_ ), deletes that too. Apart from the perfunctory questions and odd profanity, the email contains nothing of interest, no concerning updates on the sisters and, thankfully, no cries for help. For now, it seems they are safe.

Felix is not the only one trying to contact her.

Since she rang Cosima, her phone has been buzzing on repeat, the caller always the same.

Each time her name appears Delphine has to resist to resist the urge to swipe a thumb across in answer, and counts the heartbeats until it disappears, again and again.

But always it comes back, as stubborn and overwhelming as the woman herself.

She switches her phone off and places it aside, using her other hand to wrestle a lock of hair out of her gaze. Grimacing at the oily texture, she winds it behind her ear. Tangled and matted, she's not sure her hair has portrayed such an ugly mess in all her life. The weight of it presses against her skin, dirty and thick.

' _Merde. Delphine, your hair! It is such a mess.' The brush rakes through her hair as her mother struggles to tame it. "I swear. Your father, you know he is to blame for this, don't you? That Cormier hair, the whole family's infested with it."_

' _Papa says he likes my hair.'_

' _Well, of course he would say that, wouldn't he? It's_ his _hair._ _'_

' _He says it's beautiful.' She remembers because her father holds few compliments for anyone, and his offering of them is even more rare. This one she clutches to her chest just as fiercely as she does her doll,_ Genevieve _, at night._

' _Hm, perhaps. But wild! And not at all becoming for a lady of your standing.'_

 _Her hands strangle three strands, pulling and twisting the new frizz that has developed out of curls obliterated by the harsh touch of a brush. She works them together, tugging and twisting, over and over until she has mastered a neat braid down the back of Delphine_ _'s head._

 _It pulls tights, pins the sear at the roots of every strand, but Delphine bears it._

' _There. That's better.'_

 _Her mother is smiling._

Hands working from memory, Delphine fumbles her way through the familiar braid, the one she learnt by heart during childhood and performed to perfection in boarding school. The action exhausts her more than it should and, by the end of it, she's left with only the strength to fall back against the pillows, deflated.

A tentative sniff at her coat has her redrawing in haste, nose wrinkling. Days of sweat (the bacteria in her skin having taken full advantage to break it down into smellier compounds) and unchanged underwear have not been kind to her.

Lovely.

The blood, at least, is gone. Or maybe it was never there to begin with. No, it was. She can still feel the hot, stickiness against her skin, oozing into her pores, forming a foul crust as it dried out. Some of it still remains in her hair, she caught a few grizzly snags when she was wrestling it into a plait.

Her skin is clean of crimson, though. Another thing, she suspects, she has Shay to thank for. The realization is unwelcome.

Sighing, Delphine closes her eyes and contemplates the idea of sleep.

Her plans are, unfortunately, interrupted by Shay. Approaching from the kitchen, she wipes her hands off on her pants, head down.

"Right, the soup's on. While it's cooking we should see if we can get you up moving."

She doesn't seem inclined to mention Delphine's lack of a phone call and, although she remains wary, Delphine can't help but be grateful for this. Her gratitude falls flat when she absorbs the rest of Shay's words.

Delphine's heard worse ideas, she's sure, but none appear in her head right now. She has no desire to get up and walk around without purpose, to reignite the flame in her stomach that has only just begun to cool. Most of all, she doesn't want to bring herself any closer to Shay than she already is.

"Perhaps later."

From the crease of Shay's brow, this does not seem to be a satisfactory answer.

Her suspicions are proved right when she goes on to insist that she at least _try_ and have a little walk, stretch her legs ('with my help, of course'), and work out those muscles.

She's exhausted. No matter that it has been no more than an hour and a half, by her count, since she woke up, or that sje was asleep for two days before that. Her body drags on her, pulling her down into the mattress and marooning her there. She suspects that the morphine (while reducing her pain) is only adding to the lethargy.

Delphine knows that she needs to exercise her muscles, can feel their stiffness and the stretching ache of them with every shift, knows as well the risks of not doing so.

Still, it takes more than a few prods from Shay to get her up.

It should be a source of humiliation for her. Delphine has always been ambitious, determined to prove herself, if not the best at, then capable of everything. In school, she was competitive, excelling in all subjects. Her score card was never below a 15, not for any class, though maths and literature did try her at times. First to class, last to leave, never an assignment over due. Her marks had to be the best, her steps in the dance the most precise, lines in a play most artfully delivered.

(none of which endeared her to her peers)

Weakness, vulnerability - she came to know them as shortcomings, embarrassments, never to be exposed to any but the trusted (and there have been so few to trust).

That girl would be dismayed to see her now - _Non_ , horrified. She would have dug her heels in and made herself _tumble_ out of the bed if she could not climb. She would have rejected the hand that Shay uses to help her up now, and only leant on her when it became certain she would fall.

Delphine can't find that girl in her anywhere.

When she places her feet upon the ground and stands up, her legs nearly crumple beneath beneath her. It is only with Shay's timely intervention that she manages to stay upright at all. It's as though, whilst sleeping, her muscles have liquefied, transformed to a sludge that drags down her limbs and refuses to support her bones.

The discovery is unsettling.

"OK?" Shay asks, having slipped an arm around her waist to keep her steady. Her small hand rests light but firm at her side and Delphine shivers at the feel of it, even through the material of her jacket.

The only woman she has ever been this physically close to is Cosima - and her mother, when she was very young, but such memories are distant now. That shay can now consider herself among this rank is astounding, and she almost pulls away at the thought.

She does not like being so close.

It should feel worse.

"Delphine?"

She steels herself with a nod and they begin.

Eventually, her legs remember their purpose and gradually solidify with each stubborn step. Still, it is not an easy task. Though her limbs strengthen, her torso rouses from its discontented slumber, alighting with newfound agony. Each jostle of her gait is a pull against muscle, stitches, newly composed flesh. She clenches her jaw and stifles the groans.

If Shay notices at certain spots that she leans upon her a little heavier, she gives no sign (it is something she seems to have knack for).

Her shoulder is fine and bony under Delphine's weight, digging into her flesh along with the sharp jut of her hip. _The bones of a bird_ , Delphine thinks idly, _a very large bird_. She ponders the fragile wrist secured to her side, calculates the pressure it would take to snap.

Bones aren't easy to break manually, and not without technique, but Shay's are so small . . .

Even in her weakened state, she might be capable.

She takes a step, gazes down at the outside of her foot, considering.

When she was 14 she fractured her 5th metatarsal during ballet practice. It was the _grand allegro,_ always the most exhilarating and exhausting part, and they were nearing the end. Her legs had beat against the other in the middle of a perfect _cabriole_ when she landed wrong, rolling her ankle and ruining the routine. A snap splintered her concentration - and she was sure it was heard throughout the room, deafening the finishing notes of _Reprise de la valse_ _ **.**_ The pain at the time was blinding, her world disappearing into sharp swell of her ankle, the blackening of her skin.

She was in crutches for weeks afterwords, barred from dance for months, and her role in the Winter Recital (the one her parents were coming to see) was lost. Even after it healed, her ankle was never the same. Her dancing had a drag to it, an Achilles heel she resented with every step.

It was during the downtime of her recovery, however, that she discovered her love for biology. It started with investigating what happened to her, mapping the structure of her bones, matching the text book diagrams to her x-rays. She would trail a finger around the outside of her good foot, starting at her calcaneus, passing the outside tarsal and metatarsal bones, all the way up to her phalanges. Once there, she would wiggle the fine bone of her little toe, delighting in this new knowledge.

When she massaged her 5th metatarsal, she could feel the bulge of bone that had fractured in her other foot. It was comforting to learn what she could about her weakness. And eventually she grew to love the process. Science had always held her attention but the way the body worked, the mastery of the cells and the architecture of the bones captivated her.

By the time she was ready to return to dance, a full twelve weeks later, a new passion had bloomed within her, redirecting the course of her life. Delphine may not believe in fate but she cannot contest that, if not for her foot, she might never have met Cosima. And that . . .

That is worth a thousand broken bones.

She wonders if Cosima would believe the same.

"Do you think you can manage one more lap?"

The question pulls her from her thoughts and Delphine cranes her head to answer, struggling to avoid knocking her nose against Shay's head. Uneven in height, she has been forced into a slant, face a breath away.

The last time Delphine was this close to Shay, she was bleeding to death and could notice little else beyond this. Now, her senses grasp at the woman beside her, despite her own resistance, feeding on every little detail they can catch (and she has always had a mind for details).

Despite her unkempt appearance, Shay smells soapy and fresh (a contrast to Delphine's own state). Her hair is fine, soft against Delphine's chin when she cranes her head, and she feels an increasing amount of self-consciousness when she remembers the oily, snagged state of her own.

" _Oui,_ _"_ she decides, in an effort to make up for her earlier laziness. The pain is mounting but she knows herself capable of more.

Shay squeezes her hand in acknowledgment, or perhaps encouragement.

She is cold.

The information is unexpected. Delphine may not like her, their exchanges never far from hostile, but she has still managed to detect a palpable warmth to her personality. She does not exude the passionate heat of Cosima that borders, at times, on a fever, but Shay _is_ warm, like a hot bath that has finally cooled to a comfortable temperate.

Yet her skin is icy.

It is an unsettling contrast and only increases Delphine's reluctance to be near her. Before they begin another walk, she draws away, just a little, in an effort to insert some space between them.

Shay glances at her but says nothing.

. . .

Afterwords, when Delphine is sagging back against the pillows, eyes drooping, and Shay is checking her injuries to see if any have reopened, the decision is made to up her morphine dose. It has become almost ineffective against the new onslaught of pain, and being that 10mg is the lowest dosage, she is given another tablet. And then another, thirty minutes later, when Delphine is still struggling to hide a wince. This, however, is the stopping point. Shay is resolute at not exceeding 30mg, not when she lacks both the knowledge and the license to prescribe medication.

"I think it's best if we try to avoid an overdose," she says lightly, not meeting Delphine's eye.

She doesn't miss the way Shay's hands shake as she closes the drawer where the morphine resides, face tight.

She thinks it curious, even as her lids fall to exhaustion and she passes into sleep.

. . ..

Susan trails her fingers over the open manila folder set before her, considering its photos with marked disinterest. Beneath the outside veneer, however, there is a blossoming curiosity as she recognizes both individuals.

 _Most interesting._

". . . we suspect that Miller might be involved," Sheldon Lewis, Head of Department of Intel, finishes.

"Mm. Well, we knew he was a risk when he signed on," she murmurs, flipping over the page.

This one, taken from one of DYAD's security cameras, shows Delphine Cormier being helped into a small, blue bug by Shay Davydov. Her involvement certainly casts suspicion on Miller, though they can't ignore Davydov's own connections to DYAD through Ms Niehaus.

Susan purses her lips in thought.

"Your orders?"

Having seen enough, she closes the file. "Continue surveillance but don't interfere. I want to see what he's up to." And what his affiliation with Cormier is.

His eyes widen. "But, Dr Cormier-"

"Is hardly a security risk. At this point, she knows no more than Manning." Unfortunately, some of that is information Neolution isn't privy to themselves. Perhaps she was too hasty in choosing to terminate Cormier. Capture and interrogation might have proved more fruitful in the end (and still could if they managed to bring her in). It was, after all, the original plan. Until it was derailed when Nealon failed to implant the parasite.

Well, he'd paid for that mistake with his life.

The worst thing to come from his death and Cormier's escape was Leda and Topside being alerted to the existence of moles within their factions. That Ferdinand would then side with Manning against them was also unfortunate, though not unexpected. His aggressive hatred for Neolution is well known, an regrettable consequence of losing his fiancée in the lab explosion that was supposed to eliminate Ethan. Instead, they lost valuable data and gained a powerful (and rather psychotic) enemy.

Sheldon appears uneasy at her orders. "The board will disapprove. They want Dr Cormier to answer for the death of Dr Nealon."

"Yes, a tragedy. Though not entirely unforeseen." He will be missed.

"Ma'am?"

"DYAD employees tend to have particularly short shelf-lives. And Dr Nealon was no exception. He knew the risks." Though, doubtless he thought himself above them. Arrogance will undo even the greatest of minds. Just ask Aldous."No, Dr Cormier is to remain untouched. At least for now."

He hesitates. "But the board-"

"The board will act in Neolution's best interests," she cuts. Let it not be forgotten that she is the spearhead of this organization. " _No interference_. And ensure there's an update on Leda on my desk by noon tomorrow. Castor as well."

Now that Virginia Cody is out of the picture, Castor will be completely without guidance or authority - and even more out of control, as a consequence. They could very quickly become a real threat. No doubt they will, unless Neolution steps in and puts a stop to it.

Cody might not have been one of them but she kept those boys in line (for the most part) and, from the reports she's read, that's no easy task. Her interests, also, tended to align with Neolution's more often than not.

Of course, pull a few strings inside Topside and they could have her released within the week.

Susan hasn't decided yet if that's the proper course of action, though. It might prove more beneficial to induct them into the fold, put them under _Neolution_ _'s_ control, rather than Cody's. There would be no end to the benefits of having one half of the clones under their thumb.

And it shan't be too hard.

Castor, at their root, are pack animals; wolves that have now been freed of their cage. If they turned a few, the rest should follow. They've already managed one.

Or better yet, identify the alpha among them, now that Cody no longer fills that position, and turn _him_. They would obey their alpha.

"What's the word on Ms Manning?" Sarah Manning, the proverbial thorn in Rachel's side. The mother of miracles, and alpha of her own little pack. She must confess herself interested in meeting this woman.

"Nothing new on that front, I'm afraid. Still no sightings, though we're almost certain now that she's left the city, maybe even the state."

Not what she hoped for, but not unexpected. Manning is nothing if not tricky (and a lifelong headache). "Very well. That will be all, Sheldon." Susan holds out the folder for him to collect.

He nods and hastily grabs it before making a retreat. If he was a dog, his ears would be drooping and his tail would be tucked between his legs. She likes Sheldon, he's shown remarkable intelligence and insight during his tenure, but he is a man without spine. Such a thing can be of value but in his case, it only grates on her nerves.

Susan frowns and settles back in her chair. Finger tapping at the surface of her desk, a plan begins to formulate. Given time, Cormier and Davydov will be of great use to them.

All they have to do is wait for the opportune moment.

. . .

Delphine is shaken from sleep some time later. She startles, jerking at the unwelcome contact and cries out when the motion pulls at her stitches. Above her, Shay winces apologetically.

"Sorry. I tried calling your name but you were dead to the world."

Several days ago, that statement was very nearly true.

"It's fine." Delphine tries to smile, drops it when the expression stretches the muscles of her face to an uncomfortable degree.

It has come to her attention that, among other things, she has stolen Shay's bed. The other woman hasn't mentioned it, but there are no other beds in the house and, as they were walking around the room, she noticed the neatly folded blankets on the couch. At this point, Delphine suspects that Shay could do anything and she would have to consider it 'fine'.

Having barreled into the woman's life without so much as an apology, and proceeded to overtake said life and turn it on its precarious head, Delphine doesn't exactly have room to complain.

"Dinner's ready," Shay continues, pulling back. "I would have let you sleep but you've had nothing but TPN for the past few days so."

It is only now that Delphine notices the tray Shay has set down on the end of the bed, far away from the threat of her feet. On top of it are two large bowels of soup and the steam signals that, despite the delay of needing to wake Delphine up, they're still hot.

A growl breaks the silence and it is only when Shay seeks to hide a smile that Delphine recognizes it as coming from her.

 _The table falls deathly still, her stomach_ _'s betrayal echoing echoing around the room, driving a flush into her pale cheeks. Maman stares at her, mouth pinched, the muscle in her jaw flexing._ _'Delphine.'_

' _Pardon, Maman."_

 _Those eyes continue in their glower, silence reigning._

 _Papa rolls his eyes, shoving a large bite of meat into his mouth, and earning a glare from Maman._ _'Let the girl eat, Isabelle.'_

 _Maman clenches her lips so hard they seem to disappear, skin turning white. Delphine flinches as the tall woman surges up, positions her chair under the table (just so, just so), and stalks out of the dining room. The clack, clack of her heels against the hardwood beats a punishment against her nerves with each step._

 _Papa eats on, not even glancing up from his meal, and Delphine . . ._

 _Delphine_ _'s hand trembles around her fork as she turns it over on the table cloth. She lifts it, places it down, lifts it. If she picks it up, she just knows she'll drop it._

 _That ravenous hunger from before, so clawing, so mutinous, is all but gone, swallowed by a sinking nausea. She forces herself to remain at the table until Papa finishes, until after he leaves, until she hears the slam of the back door, signaling his departure. When she rises, she goes around and collects the tree plates, the two full and the one empty, and returns them to the kitchen, tipping the leftovers into the bin._

 _Maman would not like the maid to see._

"Need help sitting up?"

Delphine shakes her head at Shay, who has taken to hovering nearby with an air of false disinterest. "No, thankyou."

She has started to master the art of heaving her aching body up against the wall and maneuvering it into a semi comfortable position. She even manages it this time without too much pain, biting her lip only once at an intrusive moan. When she has finished arranging her posture into something that seems relatively safe for eating, Shay hands her a bowl, watching her for a bit to ensure she has a suitable grip on it.

Satisfied, Shay settles herself at the end of the bed, beside the tray, crossing her legs and drawing her own bowl over to cradle in her lap. She seems utterly at ease, perched there, as though the situation is nothing out of the norm, and Delphine envies that. Although a lie (for it has to be) it is convincing enough, and at least saves face, something that Delphine has been losing more and more of.

She also hates her for it, for the strange way it manages to be almost comforting.

She does not want Shay to be comforting.

Lowering her head, Delphine spoons a tentative mouthful, and blinks at the taste. " _Tr_ _ès bon_. It's good." It seems Cosima's new girlfriend is a woman of many talents. The acknowledgment is a somewhat bitter one.

Shay nods down at her soup. "Do you cook?"

"Yes. _Un peu_."

The soup is for her benefit, she knows. As Shay said, she has been on nothing but Total Parentral Nutrition for two days. Whilst this has sustained her intake of vitamins, minerals and calories, her stomach has still gone days without digesting a single thing. Anything more than soup and she would no doubt be in agony for hours. Even with this liquid meal, her stomach reaches a discomforting stretch.

Dinner commences quietly, neither party particularly open to conversation - though the blame rests more heavily on Delphine's shoulders. There is a brief interlude in which Shay takes the time to inform her about certain ingredients she included and their benefits (turmeric for inflammation, spinach for energy and blood vitality, parsley for immune support, sweet potato for healing,…). She doesn't say that she chose them with Delphine in mind but she doesn't have to, the properties of each ingredient make their purpose obvious.

Despite this (undeserved) olive branch, Delphine hardly listens, too caught in the turmoil of her own mind and body to spare attention for much outside it. If Shay notices, she as usual lets it slide, and eventually they lapse back into silence.

Delphine knows how to spark conversation, how to engage someone and keep them talking. She has honed her social skills to a point since her school days, trained herself in the art of flattery, innocent flirtation and easy manner. Even now, pained and exhausted, a poor mockery of her former self, she could do it. She could talk with Shay, build a camaraderie. She might even make her like her.

She could.

But the idea of such deceptions exhausts her now.

Besides, it is not the most uncomfortable dinner she has ever partaken in. No, that honor rests solely at the foot of her family's dining room table, where awkward silences were the norm and fights a course served between mains and dessert.

This is, indeed, a step up from that.

She doubts its ability to last, though.

Ever since she first woke up, she has been waiting for the questions to begin. Those inevitable ones she cannot answer:

Who shot you?

Why did they shoot you?

How is DYAD involved?

How is _Cosima_ involved?

Why could I not tell her?

 _Why should I help you?_

She cannot answer a single one, not truthfully, and maybe not even dishonestly. She has been scanning her brain, in between fretting over Cosima and her fears in regard to Neolution, for a believable story. A believable _lie_. So far, Shay has not asked more than the bare minimum, even as her gaze rakes across Delphine every now and then, armed with curiosity. She has not pushed.

But she is not so naive to think that can last.

If Delphine was a stranger than maybe she might have more of a chance, her privacy given greater due - though even this is unlikely. But she is not a stranger. She has been illy interwoven into Shay's life through Cosima, an outcome unexpected (and unwanted) by all of them. She once invaded this very room and bullied the younger woman into a state of terror; dangled her life before her eyes and displayed with relish the scissors in her other hand.

They share affection _(love)_ for the same woman.

A woman who is conspicuously absent from their story right now.

So there will be questions. And Delphine will have to answer.

She just needs more time.

Shay's thoughts seem to be running the same course, though. Towards the end of their silent meal, she speaks. "So. Custard?"

The spoon stills in Delphine's bowel and she frowns. _Quoi?_

Food products were not on her list of questions to worry about.

Shay stirs her soup, spoons herself another mouthful, unhurried. "Sorry, Castor. When you showed up here that day, you thought I was taking money from _Castor_ . . ."

Delphine has to bite her lip. An absurd laugh has sprung up within her which she now struggles to contain. Custard. Castor.

Cosima would like that.

She frowns. It is not really that funny.

"So," Shay continues after eying her a moment, sensing the change in Delphine's mood and not knowing what to make of it, "What's Castor and did they have anything to do with this?"

"This?" She's stalling.

"Being shot."

Her eyes flicker. Shot. _Shot_. Shot. Although, she's thought the word many times over, known its place in the sequence of events, and it's cause in regards to her current condition, it is . . . unsettling to hear it acknowledged aloud. Many thoughts take place inside one's head, many events, dreams, nightmares.

But that doesn't make them real.

Shay catches the response. Delphine can tell because her hands twitch. This twitch, this tell, is something she has noticed whenever Delphine has let pass so much as a wince or groan. Such a small movement of the hand, barely worth an interest, though it steals hers.

She does not know what it means, can only recognize the pattern of the action. For whatever the meaning of it, the cause is plain - Delphine.

It is disconcerting. She is not used to people noticing, let alone reacting, to such subtle shifts in her mood. As unsettling as it is, there is also a strange tingling of warmth beginning in her chest.

"Greek."

"What?"

"Castor," she says. "It's Greek." She has moved onto the 'distract' stage of stalling. "Twin brother of Pollux. Son of Leda and Zeus. In some myths he is immortal." No doubt, that would have been an added bonus for the military. Immortal soldiers. Identical. Raised separate from society. Loyal to the cause and _only_ the cause.

Except it appears their prodigies suffer a shorter life span than most. Dying, minds disintegrating, they are becoming all but useless to their makers. _How sad_.

She cannot find the sympathy. "His symbol is a horse."

Shay nods, sipping at the soup from her spoon. "I think my grandfather used to treat a horse named Castor. I always thought he was named after the sugar but, horse god, I guess that makes more sense."

There is a moment where she hesitates, heart kicking at her chest. It is a silly thought, ridiculous even, but it plants the seed in her mind - has Shay known all along? Has her ignorance in regards to Castor merely been an act? Has she just been playing her, pretending at confusion? Maybe she is in league with Castor, after all. And this has all been some elaborate ruse to gain Delphine's trust and thus information on Leda. Maybe Castor and Neolution are operation together, under the same banner.

What a terrifying alliance.

For a minute, she allows the thoughts to race, picking up speed and gusto as they run rampant through her mind. Then she calls a halt.

Despite her paranoia, Delphine can recognize the absurdity of the theory, constructed from nothing but a stray comment about an old horse. Saving her life and nursing her back to health, making her _soup,_ is a level of subterfuge she thinks beyond even that of Castor, or Neolution.

Still, there are things that don't add up. Inconsistencies that refuse to align, red flags that have her defenses spiraling.

She yearns for the hard press of a gun against her ribs, a comfort she woke without. She held her tongue against asking Shay what became of it, though, suspecting such a question wouldn't be well received. Still, Delphine misses the weight of it, the security.

She is utterly defenseless. At least, in DYAD (the figurative belly of the beast) she had the illusion of armor. She had a gun in her desk and a position of power, even if that power amounted to nothing in the end.

At the very least, she could run.

But what would she do with the gun if she had it? How far would she go?

Would she use it? _Could_ she?

Would she shoot Shay?

Delphine knows how easy the action is now - point and pull, repeat as needed. Easy.

But Shay is not Nealon. Nealon was part of a corrupt organization, the very same that spawned Leekie and fashioned Rachel into the monster that Delphine still wants to _claw_ at. Nealon tried to kill her.

And Shay . . .

Shay is the woman who saved her.

 _Can I kill her?_

Maybe.

If she became a threat to Cosima, almost certainly.

She hopes she does not have to.

Delphine startles as the empty soup bowel is plucked from her hands. "Alright, story time's over."

Delphine blinks, closing her mouth as her gaze shifts to Shay's retreating form. Finding her way into the kitchen, the blonde places the dishes in the sink and switches the tap on, failing to spare Delphine a glance.

"You don't want to know more?" Other than give a brief lesson on Greek Mythology, she has done nothing to answer Shay's questions.

Her stomach coils with suspicion.

There is a disconcerting degree of knowing in Shay's eyes when she looks back at her. "Nope." The small smile that has been twitching at the corner of her mouth fades and she returns her attention to the sink. "At least not now. I figure we can take this slow. I mean, we've got time." She sounds no more pleased about this fact than Delphine.

She wonders if this is some brand of interrogation technique - lull her into a false sense of security, then drill her for information. Manipulate her into feeling safe and trusting, to the point where Delphine is only too eager to spill every little secret known to Leda. Or is the action less calculated than that, Shay merely recognizing Delphine's limits and offering her the gift of time?

Delphine cannot read her intentions, struggles to believe the innocence with which they present.

Sighing, Delphine massages her head, trying to abate the oncoming headache.

She cannot trust Shay, _will_ not. There is too much at stake.

"Delphine?"

She glances up in slight confusion.

"You OK?"

 _Non._

She lowers her hand with a frown, straightens her spine and draws herself up. Pain lances through her stomach but she tramps it down. If she can work confessions from Nealon and Rachel, far greater beasts of cunning, than Shay should be no issue. "What were you doing there?"

Shay squints. "Where?"

"DYAD." She watches the woman closely, searching for hints of error, weakness. Anything that might give her away as the enemy. "What were you doing at DYAD?"

Shay frowns as she leans back against the counter, considering her.

* * *

 **A/N: So what do you reckon? Passable?**

 **What was Shay doing at that parking garage? Can she be trusted?**

 **And Susan Duncan up too?**

 **Also, Delphine mentions never getting anything below 15 in marks (just put me to shame, Delphine) which in the French grading system is sort of a equivalent to an A.**

 **The music playing during the ballet is _Glazunov - Raymonda: Reprise de la Valse_**

 _ **Quoi = what**_

 _ **Un peu = a little**_

 _ **Très bon = very good**_


	8. Epidermis

_**A/N: Hey guys! Long time no see. Sorry for the wait. I**_ _ **'ve been up to here with the busy. Sorry to say that it looks like I won't be able to update regularly (though I will continue to update). I just don't have the time anymore. I know that sucks (I hate getting into a story and having to wait for updates) so I really am sorry.**_

 _ **I might be able to get out shorter chapters more quickly but I feel like it might be better to read when they**_ _ **'re long even if they are infrequent (but that's just my experience with reading other fics). Let me know what you guys think.**_

 _ **Also, it can**_ _ **'t go without saying that you are beautiful, beautiful people that give me the most amazing reviews that I am forever thankful for. They really motivate me to keep this story going, even when I'm bogged down by the latest round of writer's block (can science please make a cure for that?). Hope you're all doing well and that life's treating you good :)**_

 _ **. . .**_

 _(_ _ **Epidermis:**_ _is a protective outer covering of many plants and animals. It may be comprised of a single layer, as in plants, or of several layers of cells on top of the dermis, as in those of vertebrateanimals. The primary role of the epidermis is to protect the more susceptible layers of the skin.)_

 _ **. . .**_

If Shay is surprised by the question, she manages to hide it well. Her displeasure, on the other hand, is obvious, jaw ticking with the reluctance to gift Delphine with an answer.

Yet she does. "If you must know, I was having dinner with my brother. He knew I was having a crap day," she levels her with a pointed look that Delphine finds easy enough to ignore, "and invited me out."

The story is burdened with a great many holes. Delphine doesn't know where to begin. "Dinner at Dyad?"

A hard stare. "There's a restaurant across the street. Dyad has free parking."

A detail she supposes Shay learnt on her trip to the facility with Cosima (the memory of which still calls frustration - the security risk alone!). She wonders whether Cosima also informed her lover that such a privilege was only reserved for DYAD's employees. Or perhaps Shay is more accustomed to flouting rules than appearances would have people believe.

A mole for Castor would have little respect for common law.

The motive, at least, is believable. She found her litany of parking tickets impressive when flipping through her file. Delphine, who has never earned one herself, has to wonder whether Shay was not _trying_ to receive a fine.

Still, there is one glaring error in her story.

"You don't have a brother." Two sisters, yes, but no brother.

A detail she thought meaningless at the time of reading but one that proves a pivotal piece in the puzzle of her misgivings now.

Shay stiffens but her expressions shows no signs of being caught. Her eyes are absent of guilt. Rather, there is an underlying anger that she purses her mouth to conceal, biting down.

The emotion is warranted.

Delphine's hackles rose every time Rachel saw fit to remind her of the investigation into the doctor's own life. Stray facts here and there, trivial even (and some not so trivial), but a symbol of the power she lorded over Delphine nonetheless.

It was the first time she wanted to do her harm, but not the last.

Rachel's attacks were borne of malice and a desire to intimidate, to shrink all in her path (that Delphine was a plant that refused to be withered only urged her assaults to become more brutal).

Delphine is not Rachel, though. She has spent long enough in her shoes to be certain of that much, at least. Even if she did slip a little too far into her skin at times. Even if Cosima did struggle to find her beneath layers of harsh epidermal.

She is not Rachel.

Her interest in Shay's history is a necessity, not borne of a desire to subdue, to hurt. She seeks only to identify the lies and an unearth the truth, whatever that might be. Once she might have lauded the information over her. Back when Delphine was to the brim with anger and resentment both, more than enough to motivate the crime. But she no longer wishes for such an advantage.

She wants only to protect Cosima.

However that may be.

It are her suspicions, stubborn and persistent, refusing to depart, that drive her forward now. If they withdrew, then she would expel all private knowledge from her mind, leave Shay to her secrets. But they have not. Instead Shay continues to arouse in her an acute uneasiness. So she must press, and use whatever advantage she has remaining to her.

So in the face of the other woman's ire, she does not flinch back, but raises her chin and bears it. She has borne much worse.

"Brother in arms," Shay grits finally. "Satisfied?"

No. "A friend from the military?"

An answering shrug that Delphine takes to be an agreement. "We've known each other a long time. He might as well be my brother." There is something she's not saying but in relation to what, Delphine can't guess.

She's not a gullible person, but that isn't to say she's ever been particularly good at reading people. She got into bed with Leekie, after all.

In the past, she often took things at face value (it's exhausting, analyzing every word, every facial tick, entering all conversations in search of a lie). Unlike Cosima, who suspected Delphine was a DYAD plant from the minute the ruse began, _and_ knew her promise to keep her blood out of DYAD's hands was broken from the start. Cosima is good at reading people. She is good at reading Delphine.

 _(just not when it mattered)_

After she returned to DYAD with Cosima in hand, though, she did some research. Light, compared to her usual, but substantial enough that it would hopefully be of some value. It was her opinion that if they were going to be operating under a legion of unscrupulous individuals - whom may or may not intend to sell them down the river sooner or later - then she needed to prepare.

Considering that DYAD and lies seemed to have formed a kind of symbiotic relationship, she decided to start there (Dr. Paul Ekhman's science of Facial Action Coding was particularly interesting). It wasn't as fruitful as she'd hoped. In investigating the tells and mechanisms of deceit, all she achieved in knowing for certain was that there _was_ no real way of ascertaining whether or not someone was lying. At least, not without a margin of error.

There are, of course, a trifle of things that can give a person away. Most of them replicating the symptoms of anxiety: stuttering, increased breathing and heart rate, sweating, fidgeting, the aversion of eye contact (Delphine could have easily been considered a serial liar in her youth). But the symptoms are not the rule and as such not everyone displays them.

And Rachel and Leekie are- _were_ no amateurs.

To her frustration, her efforts proved useless against both their individual and combined forces. Not to mention that disaster with Nealon.

There's no denying they were talented at what they did. They exhibited none of the ordinary cues, gave nothing (or seemingly) nothing away. They did not lie but act.

Delphine well understands the difference.

So her research was mostly for naught. Except in those instances where Scott plucked up all his courage to try and hide something from her, usually (always) at the behest of Cosima. Not that anyone needed much help in detecting whether or not Scott Smith was attempting to swindle them.

Nonetheless, she thinks back to all that extraneous knowledge now and trains it on Shay. Maybe some of it will prove useful, after all.

But Shay, too, is a good actress (or just _honest_ ). Her gaze is steady, complete with the occasional blink, and although her body is tense with irritation she does not seem impaired by nerves.

If Delphine could touch her, feel her heart, she doubts it would race.

But although Shay is easier to read than Rachel, she is not nearly so transparent as Scott. If she is lying, Delphine doesn't know her well enough to tell.

"What's his name?" Thanks to DYAD's resources, She is aware of a few military personal with possible ties to Castor, as well as some of Topside's own plants.

Shay crosses her arms. "Why? Gonna shove your way into _his_ home next?" _Are you going to threaten him too?_

Delphine's hardly in a condition to do so, and they both know it. Still, the words and their bite gain from her a reluctant withdraw, as was no doubt intended.

She lets the question slide, but not from memory. It is something she will fixate upon later. This friend. This brother.

He is a sore spot for Shay. That much is clear.

But is he dangerous?

"So you found me when you were returning to your car after dinner?" She maneuvers them back on track.

"Yeah."

Delphine frowns.

It's too coincidental. That Shay would be invited out on the exact night of her attack, and to a restaurant so close to DYAD. That she would return to her car _after_ but not before or during the shooting, and just in time to help Delphine.

No. It beggars belief.

She can accept coincidence but not when it arrives in the wrappings of such extreme improbability. And she most certainly doesn't believe in fate.

Which only leaves one other option.

Delphine clenches her jaw for a moment, releases. "Alright," she allows. "Thankyou for telling me. I'm sorry . . . For the questions." She forces the words out, even molds her face into a mask of apology, but her hands clench at her sides. The veins at her wrists beating an anxious rhythm.

There has to be more.

 _ **. . .**_

The sound of running shower water dogs her steps as Shay makes her way into the back room.

The decision for Delphine to wash was a unanimous one, the French woman enlivening with the first hints of eagerness Shay has glimpsed since she awoke. Understandable. She would be crawling out of her skin for a chance to get clean, too, if she was trapped inside the same sweat soaked clothes from the past few days. The sensation is not an unfamiliar one.

In the past, she would go days without showering, or changing. Though back then, she hardly noticed the stench and grotty cling of material. It didn't matter. Not but one thing did. And outside of that, she was aware of little but the itch under her skin and the hollow vacuum in her chest, which could fill with agony at the slightest prod.

Sometimes, though, she would come into herself, and her senses would scream to life once more. She could feel the dirt and decay then, the sourness of her breath. It was like waking in a grave. And on those days when the hole had been filled in and she found herself coming alive trapped beneath layers of dirt, she suffocated.

This isn't the same. It's not.

Nonetheless, the experience can't be pleasant for Delphine. And Shay is just as eager as her, if not more so, for the woman to clean herself.

She stinks.

So shower it is. She set up the bathroom for her, got out a clean towel and laid out some fresh bandages. She also put a chair in the shower in case Delphine found it too difficult to remain standing.

The last thing she needs is for her to do further injury to herself.

She's already taken one week off work, and feels terrible about for it. She won't take another. Shay may only works three days a week but they're long ones and in that time she manages to see a lot of clients. Most of whom are afflicted with pain, pain that never really goes away, and she's one of their only sources of relief.

That she's not there now to be now fans a sickening guilt that she's struggling to evade.

She spent a good four hours teeing up all the local RMTs she knows, hoping they could take on some of her clients. A few of them her colleagues were able to fit in but there were still ten who were left out in the cold. That wasn't fair to them.

It's just good that she was, in the end, able to arrange something.

But she'll have to go back to work soon. When 'soon' may be though, she has no idea. Delphine is not near recovered enough to be left alone and, even if she was, Shay is somewhat reluctant to do so. Leaving Delphine to her own devices inside her home, _without_ supervision, makes her uneasy. It's not like she has any secret compartments or murder confessions lying around but that doesn't mean she wants to give the woman a chance to go snooping. It's her home. And it's (supposed to be) private.

Of course, Delphine has made it clear that such boundaries don't apply to her. More than once she's shoved her way inside, whatever Shay's wishes. Left alone, she'll probably overturn the couch pillows and tear the paint off the walls in a desperate search to prove Shay's treachery. Whatever that may be.

She's still uncertain what exactly she's supposed to have done, what Delphine thinks her guilty of; w _ho_ exactly she's supposed to be in cahoots with, what her evil intentions are. Or what they have to do with Cosima.

Because it always comes back to Cosima.

Castor has been the only nugget of information given, and it means nothing to Shay. Greek mythology isn't foreign to her, she's read a few books here and there, but her knowledge doesn't extend pass the main pantheon of Gods. She's heard no stories of Castor so whoever chose that for the name of their evil operations must be a full on mythology junkie.

She makes a note to research the god, or Triton, or whatever he is later. Maybe google will be nice for once and point her in the right direction. 'Here is what you're looking for, Shay, here is the answer to all your questions, proceed with caution'.

Unlikely.

Luck's never been that kind to her.

Case in point, Styles still hasn't called her back.

Like Cosima with Delphine, she's been attacking his phone with an increasing number of voicemails and texts. Hopefully, unlike with Delphine, his reason for ignoring her won't be quite so dramatic. There's only so many people Shay can handle getting shot in one week.

And it's not like this is unusual by any definition. Styles has always been flaky. Moreso since Ryan . . .

Well. Since Ryan.

And she gets that. Of course she does.

This isn't a missed Saturday brunch or Christmas dinner, though. This is guns and illicit surgeries and horse worshiping cults. This is Enzo and blood and picking at the stitches of a wound that can't be allowed to burst open. She _needs_ him.

Not to mention she some questions. Quite a few of them, actually.

Delphine isn't the only one with suspicions - though her way of going about them does sometimes make Shay itch to slap her. And Shay's never slapped anyone in her life. Not even Bobby Grool who put chewing gum in her hair in the seventh grade, seconds before planting a great big, drooling kiss on her. That had been deserving of a slap. More than one.

But she wasn't even tempted. Not the way she is with Delphine.

Really, though, the woman does know how to push her buttons. Her so very carefully concealed buttons. After all Shay's done, all she's _doing_ , and she still has to defend herself? Shay doesn't take the distrust personally - Delphine seems the type to harbor a certain level of suspicion for _everyone_ \- but she doesn't appreciate being interrogated in her own home. Again.

What exactly does Delphine think she's done, anyway? And how did saving her life somehow make Shay appear _more_ shady?

Well, alright, maybe that was suspicious, given their history. But still.

A little gratitude wouldn't be amiss.

For starters, that couch is a nightmare to sleep on. A few more nights and she'll be hobbling around with a permanent ache down her spine. Her charitableness as a host is sure to take a dip then.

The first two nights, she shared the bed with Delphine, wary of leaving her side in case she took a turn for the worse. Sleep wasn't the goal then, which was fortunate since she accomplished none of it. Instead, she read, or listened to music, or meditated to the reassuring rhythm of Delphine's breaths.

On the third morning, she set up some blankets and pillows on the couch. Delphine had started to stir by then, intercepting consciousness here and there, only for the briefest of moments. Shay suspected, rightly, that it meant she was soon to wake for good. Sharing a bed would no longer be an option then.

Despite being more comfortable, it's not something that would put either of them at ease. Shay doesn't have to guess to know that Delphine, though she might protest, would hate the idea. She isn't so fond of it either. There's a limit to what one will do for the sake comfort - and for her that limit cuts off somewhere around sharing a bed with the woman who held her at razor point. She only subjected herself to it in the beginning in order to keep an eye on Delphine's vitals. Free of that, she would much rather take the couch.

So she did.

Grimacing, Shay massages the small of her back.

Not one of her better decisions.

Hopefully, Delphine will get over whatever hangup she has that's preventing her from bringing Cosima in on this, and do it shortly. Her reluctance is more than a little confusing. Once upon a time, she seemed like a dog with a bone, Cosima being that bone. She was determined to insert herself, through whatever means, into the other woman's life and, in conjunction, Shay's. Yet, here they are, Shay waving the proverbial white flag and instead of running into Cosima's arms, Delphine's picked up her own.

It makes no sense.

Well, she can understand the part, sort of, where Delphine doesn't want to endanger Cosima (though not exactly how telling her about any of this will do that). What she doesn't get is Delphine's obvious aversion to even _talking_ to her. At all.

She's not deaf. Shay knows Delphine hasn't lived up to her one condition of room and board and called her. She can only hope that the doctor at least possessed the heart to text her some form of reassurance. But she's not going going to bring it up. That's not exactly a bear she wants to poke. At least, not right now.

Still, she hopes Delphine gets over whatever it is soon.

The sooner Shay can cart her off to the scientist, the sooner she can wave adios to this entire mess.

And Cosima along with it.

Her stomach twists.

 _Know your limits._

That's easier said than done.

. . .

The water pounds down upon her head, over her shoulders, bringing relief to the soreness and strain set deep into her bones.

Delphine has never gone so long without washing before and her body, caked in grime and a foul smell that refuses to depart, has been crying out for it. Closing her eyes, she ducks her head under the stream, luxuriating a moment in the pleasurable warmth. Then she reaches up, stomach protesting, to try and rake out the excess oil and grit from her hair.

 _Merde._

Her mother would kill her if she saw the state of it right now. Not just her hair but all of her, every aching part. Her mouth would thin in dissatisfaction (always dissatisfaction) and then, if she wasn't lucky, the recriminations would start. She was not often lucky.

As per usual, she feels an ill mix of thrill and anxiety at having done something her mother would disprove of.

There are so many these days - those things that would earn her mother's disdain.

Perhaps at the top of the list is Cosima. What would her mother make of her relationship with her? Nothing good, for certain. Though her imaginings never go far beyond dialing an ambulance for the inevitable heart attack. It is hard to pinpoint what exactly her mother would find most horrifying about her choice in partner: her Americanism, the dreadlocks, lack of social status, low monetary value, cheeky attitude or gender.

Hmm, that last most most definitely. Though her mother does hate the Americans.

Delphine shakes her head, a smile tempting her lips, and reaches for the shampoo. Shay offhandedly declared everything in the bathroom free game ('Mi casa su casa'), from hair products to the spare tooth brushes that were supposedly under the sink. Delphine merely has to help herself.

How Shay feels about her using her things, _washing_ in them, is unclear. Delphine, for her part, is decidedly uncomfortable.

Nausea creeps in at the belated realization that Cosima might _also_ have used them. In fact, this is almost a certainty. After all, if Shay is this cavalier about Delphine having access to her things than a girlfriend would be of no consequence.

Has Cosima stood here, where she is now, enjoying the same rush of wet heat?

The thought might be comforting, if not for the jealousy that nips at her insides.

She's never been particularly prone to jealousy. Despite being an only child, she is rather good at sharing. She was not engineered towards possessiveness. Growing up, her belongings were her parents, liable to be taken away just as easily as they were given; her school subjects were her mother's choice, as were her extra curricular activities; her dancing talent, a tool inherited from her mother and steered by her too; in fact, her passion for science might actually have been the first thing that was really her own.

Her position at DYAD was Leekie's and then Rachel's to give and take away at a whim. Even Cosima was never truly hers. Rather, Delphine came to share her with a club of sisters she could never be a part of and a sickness that might one day claim her completely ( _don_ _'t)_.

She is not possessive.

But Delphine does yearn for those moments that she lost and Shay gained. Those moments of smiles and kisses and conversation that she will never have again, can never.

Yes, she is jealous.

But that is the least of what she is.

Squirting the shampoo into an open palm, she is besieged by the fruity aroma of peaches. Her muscles still, the rush of the shower fades to a murmur and, when she closes her eyes, she can see a brush of blonde hair under her nose, feel the dash of cold skin against her neck. When she she opens them, her stomach is hurting worse than before, but there is also an oddly placed warmth in her chest.

Her heart has been tense ever since she first woke up, pricked for danger. As she rubs the shampoo in though, and the smell of peaches engulfs her, something in the muscle loosens. As if sensing a security that she can't, or won't.

It's bewildering, and the realization lingers uneasily for the rest of her shower.

. . .

Having entered the room, Shay takes a moment to lean back against the closed door, chewing on a nail as she contemplates her next move. A part of her is struggling with the urge to break down in the laughter at the absurdity of what she's about to do. It is overcome with disbelief, and rightfully so.

But she's determined. Enough to peel herself off the door and begin her search. She pulls her nail from her mouth (a bad habit she thought she'd left behind) and ignores the chipped black polish. Maybe she and Delphine can paint each other's nails later. A bonding experience to ease the tension. Surely that's not any crazier than anything else that's happened so far?

The room is small and awkwardly cluttered, as if objects have been unloaded time and time again without care to design or ease of access. Which is more or less the case. What space isn't already taken over by bookcases (she might have taken her mother's desire for her to 'read everything' a little too much to heart) is filled with cardboard boxes. Stacked high in whatever room they can find, they're what's left behind from the move. Stragglers that she still hasn't found the time or motivation to unpack, even though it's been almost seven years since she left Winnipeg.

Most of them are filled with a bounty of stuffed toys, the ones she never felt comfortable throwing away - and didn't trust her father and step-mother not to if she left them behind in her childhood home. The rest are clothes which no longer fit (and should really go to _Goodwill_ ); the best of her school reports (though 'best' is kind of generous); photo albums that she couldn't make fit in the book cases; and DVDs. A lot of DVDs. She hasn't even watched all of them.

She heads for the boxes at the far corner of the room, those ones that are crammed in, hidden. Her hands are shaky when they lift the top box and set it aside _(careful, careful)_. A hand lingers on the lid, fingering the hard edge of a flap. _It_ _'s been so long . . ._

 _Not long enough._

She swallows. Retracts.

 _Know your limits._

The bottom box takes longer to open than she'd care to admit. Not through any technical difficulties but rather the fumbling and debilitating hesitance of her hands. When the flaps are unfolded and all that's within can at last glare up at her, accusing, she has to stop, breathe.

She can do this. She's done it before-

 _not sober_

-Shay shakes her head.

Delphine needs clothes. She can't spend another day in that smelly old coat, not to mention her pants and underwear must be getting pretty foul by now. Underwear she can lend from her own drawers - and she has a feeling Delphine's response might be enough to make this entire crapstorm worth it - but tops and pants? There's no need to even try them on, they're all too small. Though the idea of watching Delphine try to wrestle her way into some does give her pause. Luckily for her, though, Shay's not feeling particularly sadistic today.

Which leaves . . .

Exhaling, she reaches into the box and searches for one of the longer shirts, pointedly ignoring the ones he wore the most. She finds a suitable enough candidate near the bottom, navy and emblazoned with the faded image of a disgruntled Batman _(always did love the comics_ ). She can only remember seeing him in it a couple of times.

Still, she raises the material to her face. Just to check. Nose pressing into the cotton, she closes her eyes, inhales and smells . . .

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Dead nothing.

 _It_ _'s been_ three _years._

But still, something, just a little something, she was hoping-

She reaches back into the box, searching out a more well worn shirt, a favorite, she has to see, to know-

 _It can_ _'t all be gone_

-and stops.

Again, she closes her eyes, rocking back on her ankles. Breathes out through her nose.

 _Ad_ _een, dva, tree, chyetiry . . ._

She can't check. She can't know.

Fear reins her still.

His scent might be there, lingering, beautiful . . . but it might not.

Shay's not sure she can handle the last. Not right now.

Not with Delphine showering in her bathroom and a handful of morphine in her desk drawer.

Packing the box away once more, the chosen shirt gripped in an ever tightening fist, she resolves to go shopping as soon as possible. At the moment, she's reluctant to leave Delphine alone, but once her condition stabilizes a bit more she's going to march into the nearest clothes store. She doesn't care if she has to buy Delphine designer from freaking _Chanel_.

Anything to keep from opening this box again.

. . .

When Delphine steps out of the shower, she doesn't reach for a towel. Instead, she shifts forward on the bathmat, water pooling under her feet, and approaches the mirror.

Through the dissipating mist, she watches the morph of her frame on the glass, eyes the rotation of glistening limbs with a burgeoning curiosity. For the most part, she looks no different. Though there is a sallowness to her skin and darkness beneath her eyes, the overall portrait hasn't changed. She is the same Delphine Cormier, French scientist, daughter of Isabelle Beraud and Jean Cormier.

It is only when her gaze travels down that the truth ruptures forth.

Delphine was too distracted at the time to pay much attention when Shay was changing her dressings. Though she recoiled at the reality of her wounds, she did not inspect. She did not _see._

Now with all bandages gone, her reflection bare, that's all she can do.

See.

See and stare.

Although the mirror is fogged, the carnage left behind by the bullet is clear. Her stomach, once toned and free of all blemishes barring the occasional freckle, is a sculpture cracked and holed.

The vertical incision is thin and red, though the inflammation is beginning to fade. If not for the precise criss cross of raised stitches, she might have mistaken it for no more than a cut.

The bullet wound fails at such discretion. For starters, there are no stitches - not yet - and the hole gapes, its center almost black, edges ribbed and throbbing. A light trickle of blood leaks, awakened by the pelt of the shower (though she tried her best to keep it out of the harsh spray as much as possible, other than to clean it).

Against the smooth skin of her stomach, it is both alien and grotesque.

It is the jagged hole on her back that stutters her heart when she turns, though, messy and far uglier than its counterparts. The skin ripped apart in the bullet's efforts to escape, stretching and tearing to hideous degree.

Tracing the inflamed edges, she cannot help but stare in mystification.

She is a doctor and a scientist. Not a soldier. Not an officer. She has never dabbled in gambling or drugs, never encountered anything of gangs beyond what she sees on television. Until last month, she didn't even own a gun.

 _Here is your perfect ballerina, Maman. Is she all you planned?_

The surgical mark is small, the scar will be faint. The bullet wounds, she suspects, will not.

It's . . . oddly comforting.

As much as anything is.

She reaches for the towel, and sets to work on drying off.

When directing her into the bathroom, Shay also left out the materials required to redress her injuries after the shower (though not before Delphine assured her that she was more than capable of the task). She carefully redoes each dressing, trying and failing at the one on her back. That one, she grudgingly accepts, will have to be left for Shay.

There is a straightener on the counter, which Delphine reaches for. Hand in the air, she stops halfway.

There is no need for it anymore, no longer a part to play.

And yet . . .

She picks the straightener up.

Part or no part, she finds the need remaining. As demanding as the mask was to wear, there was also a comfort to be found in it. Almost as though nothing could touch her. A hideous lie, of course - she was never more vulnerable.

The mask offered no real protection, just as playing Peter Pan in the eighth grade did not grant her the fairy dust to fly. Yet Delphine can't help but crave its illusive power, and the disassociation from her own self.

The mask gave the illusion of control. And that's something she has none of at the moment.

Though one could argue she hasn't been in control for a long while.

Before she can decide, there is a knock on the door.

Delphine jolts, biting her lip to suppress the answering moan of pain. Placing a protective hand upon her stomach through the towel, she approaches the door, opening its lightly in caution. Of course, there's no question of who it is. There is only one other person in the apartment. Still, her nerves pull tight.

Shay hesitates when she sees her. Eyes dancing up and down Delphine's frame, she takes in the clean skin, fresh face and dripping hair. Her gaze linger a moment on the long legs failing to be concealed by the towel.

"Shay."

Their eyes meet and Delphine can detect the faint tint to the younger woman's pale neck. She loses sight of this, however, when Shay holds out a small pile of clothes towards her. An offering of some sort.

Delphine can only stare at them stupidly.

"None of my clothes will fit you," Shay explains. "But give these a try. They'll probably be a bit big but . . ." She shrugs.

Delphine nods in understanding and receives the bundle. To be perfectly honest, she is relieved. The idea of smothering herself in the dirtied, smelly clothes of the past few days repulses her. She even entertained the brief thought in remaining in nothing but this towel for the foreseeable future, before promptly dismissing it. She might have enjoyed doing so in the presence of Cosima, but not Shay.

"I'm sure they'll be fine. Thankyou." The words are polite, drilled into her during childhood, but she instills a little more feeling into them this time. Simple and polite though they are, there is a sincerity to them that has alluded her in the past.

Shay nods shortly. "Do you need help?"

"No, that won't be necessary, thankyou."

Another nod. Though there is some doubt in Shay's eyes, there is the overwhelming impression of relief. She notices now the stiffness to her posture and the tapping of her fingers against her thigh, all hints of a need to escape. Delphine can relate.

"Call me if you need a hand."

She nods, though she has no intention of doing so. She will not be felled by mere clothes and if she is, the last thing she wants is to reveal so to Shay.

After closing the door, she holds up the clothes for inspection, wondering at the origin. They do not belong to Shay, yet she has unearthed them from some corner of her apartment. An ex lover's, perhaps? A past girlfriend who never returned for her things.

She wrinkles her nose at the thought.

They are not Cosima's, at least.

Delphine's not sure what she would do if they were, if Cosima had left any of her belongings here. Her own apartment is bare of such reminders, devoid of any of Cosima's love. She knows. Some nights, she was drunk enough to search. Not even a stray hair on any of her clothes or furniture (she can thank Cosima's dreadlocks for that).

Shaking her head, Delphine unfolds the clothes. From the size and shape she can identify them as belonging to a man. So not a past girlfriend. Maybe one of Shay's 'brothers'?

The quality is cheap, the tag proudly declaring them Target made. Delphine has never shopped there herself. Thumbing the material, she finds them at least soft, and clean, though there clings an oppressing staleness.

Whilst utterly unlike anything she would ever consider wearing, they remain world's better than her previous clothes. Unraveling her towel, she hangs it on a hook and places the shirt on the bench.

Though the process is slow, the pants are simple enough to get on, and she manages to keep them from sliding off her hips by tightening the jawstring.

The shirt is harder to navigate.

She pushes one arm through a sleeve, then another (so far so good) but when the time comes to raise it over her head, claws dig into her side. The stretch of skin and muscle pulls at her restraint and she groans, lowering her arms and taking a measuring breath. _Just a moment._

It is a shirt. Not beyond her capabilities. A simple shirt.

Closing her eyes, she nods in reassurance of the conviction, and raises her arms once more. The pull is there, the cry of protest but she grits her teeth and bears. She even manages to get her head in this time, at least partway. But it is there her perseverance falters.

The pain wrenches through her, pulling at her resolve, and in a gush of air she relents, arms falling down in defeat. The rush of their fall aggravates the pain and she winces in regret.

Useless.

" _Putain!"_

She closes her eyes with a sigh, defeated. "Shay?"

Her voice is small but it must carry for there is the sound of a door opening and the rush of icy air against her skin. Her nipples harden, flesh rising with goosebumps even as her cheeks flush with heat. Swallowing, she turns.

Shay seems already to know the problem for she holds out her hand in expectancy. Giving up on surviving modesty, Delphine drops the shirt from her chest and hands it over to her. If she is at all honest, there's doubtless very little of her that Shay has not seen by this point.

Though she tries not to think about that.

For her part, Shay seems entirely focused on the shirt in her hands, fingering the material with a delicateness that borders on reverence. When she looks up, her eyes are for Delphine's face only. "Here, hold your arms out."

Delphine does so without question, wanting nothing more than to get this over with. She raises her arms, careful this time not to reach too high, and Shay lowers them slightly with a gentle touch. Then, carefully, she threads each hand through an individual sleeve, taking the shirt down the full length of her arm to stop at her chest. Here, she stretches the material of the collar, pulling it near past its bearing point in order to fit it over Delphine's head without her having to raise her arms any further.

Shay's hand brushes her neck, cold and fleeting, but the contact makes her flinch. Delphine retracts with a sharp breath. _Too close._ Shay seems to understand for she says nothing, taking a step back. The shirt completes its fall and Delphine straightens it out with trembling hands.

It is over in less than a minute.

Taking another step back, Shay eyes her up and down. "Well, as long as you don't plan on walking down any runways, I think you'll be fine. It'll do until I can go shopping, anyway."

"That's not necessary. This is fine." Too big, of the opposite gender and slightly scratchy against her breasts but fine. As Shay said, she is not planning on walking any runways. She should count her stars just to be lucky enough to wear anything at all, to be alive to feel the coarseness of such poor material against her skin.

"Um . . ." Whatever she's about to say catches in the passage of Shay's lips, teeth biting down on tender flesh. Her eyes are slightly glazed, fixated on her shirt. Delphine might have thought her ogling her 'assets' if she didn't have a better picture of Shay's character by now.

Even if that picture is hazy in the parts she really needs to see.

The younger woman swallows and the hand that Delphine notices only now falls back to her side. It was reaching out as if to touch and Delphine frowns, eying the tense limb that now hangs taut as a hangman's noose.

Shay swallows. "I'll buy you something," she decides, turning away and reaching for the abandoned bandages on the sink. "I should do the dressing on your back as well while I'm here."

During the struggle, Delphine forgot about the wound on her back, still bare and open to infection. She forgot about her failure to cover it, to do this one thing to help herself. But the evidence was obvious to Shay the minute she entered the room, no doubt, becoming only moreso as she helped Delphine dress.

It grates at her, this helplessness. It's a state that has sought to entomb her for months. So often lately, she has been at the mercy of others: DYAD, Rachel, Cosima's illness, Neolution, even her own feelings. This new psychical invalidity seems only the lid set to seal her in.

But there is little she can do about it. She is, after all, helpless.

Delphine acquiesces, turning without protest. Her limits are obvious and she must accept them. "Thankyou."

It is all she can offer in recompense.

Shay ducks her head and reaches for the materials set aside on the sink.

 _Not all._

What Shay wants from her she cannot give:

information

insight

 _truth_

All things that would endanger the sisters if her intentions prove to be anything but as innocent as she wants Delphine to believe. She doesn't - believe, that is. Not really. Shay's explanation sounded genuine enough but the suspicion in her gut mounted with every syllable to pass her lips.

So 'thankyou' it is.

Icy fingers press against her flushed skin, still hot from the shower. She flinches at the contact and Shay hums an apology as a layer of gauze replaces her touch, gliding over the wound. Her other hand is holding up the back of Delphine's shirt and, seeing how this could make her task harder, the doctor raises her own hand to replace it. Their fingers brush against each other, hot startling against cold, as Shay relinquishes her grip.

 _Cold hands warm heart._

But Delphine does not hold to such superstition - never mind the fact that it has long since been scientifically disproved.

She wishes she could.

. . .

" _The worst wounds, the deadliest of them, aren't the ones people see on the outside. They're the ones that make us bleed internally."_  
 _―_ _Sherrilyn Kenyon_ _,_ _Infamous_

… _ **.**_

 _ **A/N: Mwa ha ha! You didn**_ _ **'t think it was going to be that easy did you? That Delphine was going to get all the answers?**_

 _ **Nope, nope, nope. You**_ _ **'ve still got quite a ride in stall.**_

 _ **All I can tell you for sure is that Shay**_ **does** _ **genuinely want to help Delphine. Beyond that, who she is and whether or not she**_ _ **'s working for someone is for you to find out ;)**_

 _ **So, I rushed this one a bit so it might not have come out so well. I**_ _ **'m hoping to have more interaction between Shay and Delphine in the future (after all, it's one small apartment, they can't exactly avoid each other forever). And of course there's poor Cosima, being kept out of the loop, that I'd like to pop in on. We'll see. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Until next time :)**_

 _ **P.S. Just putting it out there - Shay**_ _ **'s friend is**_ **not** _ **Stiles from Teen Wolf. They**_ _ **'ve got enough problems without adding werewolves to the mix. On that note, there will be no drop ins from any succubus's, shifters, Valkyries, leprechauns or sirens (though that might actually be a big help). Supernatural free zone, people! Unfortunately.**_

 _ **Translations**_ _ **(which may or may not be entirely accurate since I speak neither language)**_

 **Russian**

 _ **Adeen, dva, tree, chyetiry /**_ _ **один, два, три, четыре = 1,2,3,4**_

 **French**

 _ **Putain = literally translates as 'whore' but is commonly used the way 'Fuck' is in English**_

 _ **Merde = Shit**_


End file.
